Of Dogs and Kings
by A guy named Ben
Summary: Taken from the disaster of the End Times by a hastily-cast spell, Settra finds himself in a new land, with the promise of new empires to build and new glories to win. And he did say 'War', and the world did tremble. Rated M for blood, gore, and situations you can't really show on the evening news.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: I don't own _Kuroinu_ (and what I know from it, I learned from fan fiction) or _Warhammer Fantasy_ (though I know a bit more about it than the other one). Any resemblance of any character or event in this story to anyone or anything in real life is purely coincidental. No screaming skulls were launched via catapult in the making of this story... that I know of.**

 **Before I begin, I'd like to thank traffic jams. Horrible, horrible, three-hour-long traffic jams spent near the back of a packed bus as a thunderstorm did its worst outside, like the one that spawned this story. If not for that traffic jam and my questionable mental processes due to fatigue, I wouldn't have been able to write this. The other factors that partly inspired this story are StaffSergeant's _The Night Unfurls_ (a great crossover with _Bloodborne_ , you should check it out if you haven't yet), _The Eostian Crusade_ by Knight of Ember (another great crossover, this time of _Medieval II Total War_ ) and Wimblegurk Brigade's Rebellion challenge.**

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Prologue  
'And he did say war...'

The world was coming to an end.

Chaos reigned in the ruins of what was once the Imperial city of Middenheim. The men and beasts of the howling north, the assembled might of the Ruinous Powers, descended upon the city, massacring its screaming populace and reducing its proud monuments to the ground. Though the Doomed Legion attempted to make a stand in the city, though the horde's leaders – the warrior Sigvald and the troll-king Throgg – had perished in battle, the forces of Chaos could not be stopped. Nagash, Incarnate of Death, fled south to attempt to reach the other Incarnates. Arkhan the Black and his Morghast forces made their defiant last stand, but they too were swept away by the tide of Kurgan and monsters, with Arkhan last seen disappearing beneath a wave of charging beasts.

The skies over Middenheim darkened, the sun blotted out by slate-grey clouds and the thick smoke coming from the ruined city. Forked lightning flashed in unnatural colours, and thunder pealed like the death-knell of the world. Perhaps the Incarnates had failed in their ritual, dying together in an attempt to save the world. Perhaps they died separately, never being able to enact the ritual at all. It mattered not; the victory of Chaos was inevitable.

However, in the Great Park of Middenheim, in the middle of an open field surrounded by rubble, smoke, and corpses, one creature – one man – still stood against the inevitable: the Tomb King Settra the Imperishable, King of Nehekhara. Gone was most of the finery that adorned him in life, death and undeath, and he was little more than rotting, wounded flesh held together by slowly-disintegrating bindings and clad in broken armour. There was a gaping hole where his right lung once was, a broken spear stuck out of his left thigh just above his left knee, and his forehead was cleaved almost neatly in the centre by a barbarian's axe, but the undead king remained defiant even after suffering wounds that may have killed a mortal man several times over. Holding his khophesh two-handed, he braced himself as the beasts and madmen charged at him once more.

A dragon ogre was the first to attempt its luck, charging at Settra with the force of a great cannon's shot. The king ran towards the beast, leaping to the left at the last moment and slashing sideways with his khophesh. His sword slid through meat and bone. The dragon ogre fell forward, one of its legs cut off, and Settra delivered the killing blow: a quick chop to the back of the neck.

A troll then ran towards Settra, its club raised in preparation for an attack, and to his right, a giant reached down to grab him. Settra slashed upwards, divesting the giant of the fingers of its right hand and causing it to step back and roar with pain, and he turned to the left to and deal with the troll. He rolled to one side just as the troll's club impacted the ground he stood on, and he gave a great downward chop that lopped off the creature's arm. His next slashes opened up the troll's gut and cleanly severed its head from its body. More beasts and men then came as a disordered mob, each one attempting to win the glory of slaying Settra the Imperishable, and each one being slain in return. Many frantic hours passed, or perhaps only a few minutes. In the heat of battle, time lost all its meaning.

After yet another round of frenzied combat, the forces of Chaos fell back, circling Settra like hyenas around a wounded lion. The corpses of a dozen more of their compatriots lay around the undead king.

'I tire of slaughtering your minions!' Settra roared at the soot-black heavens. A mob of Kurgan tribesmen came at him, screaming the names of their gods, and he dealt with them with a flurry of strikes.

'Come down here, false gods! Face me! Know the consequence of daring to command Settra!'

A great bolt of bruise-purple lightning flashed, creating a short, nonsensical maze across the sky, and thunder that sounded like the screams of a thousand damned souls boomed. The ground shook, more bolts of lightning raced across the sky, and Settra noticed that the barbarian hordes, who were only beginning their attack again, were starting to fall further back.

A howling portal to the Realm of Chaos opened up in the space in front of Settra, and from it strode forth a nightmarish vision from the depths of Man's fears. It bore the outline of a gigantic vulture in the shape of a man, yet its form seemed to shift constantly, phasing in and out of reality and seeming to change in texture and composition with every passing minute. It wore robes and carried a staff, lending it an aura of authority, and the air surrounding it came alive, crackling and churning due to the immense magical power emanating from it. It was a Lord of Change, a greater daemon of the Changer of Ways.

Settra took up his blade and ran towards the daemon, intending to cut it down before it can cast any spells, but it called upon a gust of phantom wind that blew him backwards. Another troll attempted to attack him as he staggered backwards, only to be met with the fate of its other fellows as he quickly regained hit footing. However, the Lord of Change raised its left hand and fired a bolt of sorcerous lightning, hitting Settra squarely in the chest and causing him to drop his khophesh. The daemon then called upon its phantom wind again, lifting Settra in mid-air and putting him at the level of its face.

' _ **Hail to thee,'**_ it said, its voice like a multitude speaking at once. _**'Settra the Imperishable, ruler of rubble and ruin. A king shorn of a kingdom. My Master offered you power and dominion far beyond what you have achieved in life if you would but serve Him, and you chose to defy Him. I come now see you punished as a king so deserves.'**_

'Better to die a king than to live eternally as a slave,' Settra said, gritting his teeth, shaking as he attempts to break free from the wind. ' _Settra does not serve._ _Settra rules._ '

' _ **So be it,'**_ the Lord of Change replied. With a wave of its staff, it called upon a ball of blue-hued soul-fire and launched it at Settra. The king fell to the ground, on his knees and ablaze with the unnatural flames.

'Settra… is deathless,' he said as his bindings burned and his flesh sizzled. Struggling against all odds, he willed himself to move and picked up his sword. 'Settra is eternal!'

The Lord of Change simply prepared another spell to finish Settra once and for all.

Against all odds, Settra jumped towards the Lord of Change, launching himself upward on burning legs. The daemon tried to unleash another spell, but Settra was too quick. He slashed wildly, catching the daemon in the knee. It screeched in pain and tried to fly away, but he slashed, cut, and hacked with all of his strength, focussing the will that ever drove him, which forged a kingdom from a divided people, drove armies onward, and defied death twice, towards the act of slaying this daemon-spawn. Magical flames blasted out of the many wounds the king opened on the daemon's legs and torso, and it was brought to its knees.

At the last, Settra, charred and blackened by the flames, stood over his foe. He raised his khophesh high, prepared to chop the Lord of Change's head off as a final act of defiance. But before the king can lower his sword, the daemon mustered his remaining strength and waved his staff, casting a desperate spell. An orb of light emerged from the staff, and in the next instant, Settra was gone. Its strength fully spent, the daemon collapsed.

' _If… if Settra must rule,'_ the Lord of Change muttered as it struggled to stand, its voices disjointed, _'then... let him rule..._ elsewhere _.'_

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Celestine dreamed.

In her vision, her mind's eye wandered far above a vast desert. The sun hung oppressively in the middle of the cloudless sky, revealing an endless vista of stone and wind-blown sand dunes. As Celestine's vision moved forward, she noticed a thin black line in the sand. Her mind's eye moved closer to it, and to her horror, she saw it for what it truly is: a river, deadened and poisoned, and coloured a very dark red, the hue of drying blood. She wondered what may have caused such a travesty done to the river and whether the death of the river was responsible for the death of the entire land.

As she was lost in thought, though, Celestine's vision was drawn to follow the dead river downstream, and she saw two great pyramids on its two opposite banks. On the southern bank was a colossal black pyramid, one that seemed to swallow up all the light that touches it. She did not dare look at it for too long for fear that whatever lay within might take notice of her.

On the northern bank of the river was a shining white pyramid surrounded by a ruined city half-submerged in the sand. White it was dwarfed in size by the great black edifice on the opposite bank, Celestine saw that it was a massive structure as well, so large, in fact, that it overshadowed the ruined vaults, palaces, and statues of the city that surrounded it. As her vision grew closer, she saw that the smallest statues, which depicted wiry, muscular animal-headed men wielding great weapons, were more than twice her height.

Her mind's eye eventually settled on a rooftop overlooking a wide obelisk-lined square in front of the white pyramid. A series of altars lined the far side of the square, the side closest to the pyramid. Celestine watched the empty plaza, wondering what might happen next. As she looked, the funeral pyres in the far side suddenly lit up, and the vaults beside the pyramid opened up. A skeletal army of the dead, swordsmen, spearmen, archers, charioteers, and horsemen, marched forth, making no noise save rhythmic stamping of their feet as they walked. The statues that stood in front of the city's buildings moved as well, from the animal-headed guardians of the temples to the great leonine statues in front of the palaces. More statues, which resembled skull-headed scorpions and serpents, emerged from the sands. In a few moments, Celestine beheld a great host of the dead all gathered in the plaza, all of the warriors and constructs facing the white pyramid.

As she thought of what the goddess meant to show her through this vision, Celestine saw that the funeral pyres in front of the pyramid burned even brighter, and the great doors of the pyramid opened, and from the structure marched the serried ranks of what can only be described as the dead army's elite, striking with their ornate armour and their turquoise shields and led by a large skeleton carrying a golden banner and wielding a mighty flail. The skeletal elite parted into two lines, and from the pyramid emerged a large flaming chariot ridden by the king of the dead himself.

The king was fearsome and terrible to behold, an image of ancient glory and ancient horror. He was clad in armour of turquoise and gold and wrapped in funereal bindings and tattered ceremonial robes. A golden serpent-topped crown lay on his head, and he wielded a golden halberd that shone with inner light. An unnatural blue glow emanated from his empty eye sockets, and he seemed to glow with a golden hue, as if he was touched by the sun itself.

The king's chariot stopped beside his elite guards and in front of his troops, who all stood to attention. With a voice dry and harsh as the desert winds, he gave one imperious order:

'War.'

The undead warriors then started to organise themselves in preparation for battle.

Celestine tried to pry her eyes away from the sight and focus on the dead soldiers forming up in their legions and squadrons beneath tattered banners and around armoured sergeants and captains, but her mind's eye was irresistibly drawn to the deathly visage of the king. As she looked upon him with much hesitation, she saw exactly where the blue soul-flames he had in the place of eyes were focused.

He was looking right at her.

Celestine woke up in a cold sweat.

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

 **And that's it for this story. What happens next? Will I continue it? Will I leave it to die here? I guess we'll just have to find out. Comments and criticisms are always welcome.**


	2. Tactics and Visions

**Well, this happened. I'm not really sure how. I was intending to leave this story to stew in its sarcophagus for a while, but it just won't leave me be. And then, when I finally found the time to write the first chapter, it decided to leave me stuck on one chapter. Oh, the joys of writing. And so, here's a third-ish of Chapter I. I'm only uploading this to show that the story didn't die at the prologue after all.**

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Chapter I  
Part 1: Tactics and Visions

' _Our fair land, Eostia, was trapped in the vicious grip of war. For over a hundred years, the monstrous and demonic forces of the Dark Queen Olga Discordia constantly invaded the human, elven, and halfling forces of the south,_ _butchering the men and making use of the women to sate their abominable lusts_ _. Under the leadership of the Goddess Reborn, the southern kingdoms formed the Seven Shields Alliance and built the seven fortresses along the borders of the Dark Kingdom of Garan, but even their combined forces lacked the numbers to fully contain the Dark Queen's hordes. In desperation, the Seven Shields employed mercenary forces, but even that action only resulted an uncomfortable stalemate along the northern border,_ _the constant invasions and raids of the hordes of Garan held back only by an unreasonably high price in mercenary blood. And so passed a century of war and suffering, with seemingly no end in sight._

 _That is, until_ _h_ _e_ _arrived.'_

– _excerpted from_ The Chronicle of the Hundred-Year War _by M. Koelber_

The great hall of the Palace of Ken was alive with activity. All seven of the Shield Princesses, their retainers, the highest-ranking nobles and knights, and the heads of the many mercenary companies employed by the Alliance were present for one of the major strategy meetings held with increasing regularity over the past few months.

The great hall was dominated by a large round table that contained a detailed map of Eostia, with all the cities, rivers, hills, and other strategically important geographical features clearly marked. Small carved figures representing the armies of the Alliance and the Dark Queen were placed over the map. Around the table were ten seats, one for each of the Shield Princesses and one for the representatives of the nobility, clergy, and army. Lesser nobles, knights, and retainers crowding around the table, not being important or influential enough for seats of their own. Further back stood the menservants and maidservants of the palace, who carried trays of refreshments which they provided to anyone who asked.

While all the other occupants of the seats sat, Maia, Shield Princess of Ansur, stood, explaining the current situation.

'So far, we've had attacks here, here, and here,' Maia explained, moving the carved figures on the table as she spoke. 'I led my own company and the Silver Sons to repulse the attack near Ansur, and a much larger raiding party that targeted a halfling village near Rad was defeated by Luu-Luu's forces.' All eyes turned to the deceptively childlike halfling Luu-Luu, Shield Princess of Rad, who grinned and nodded at them.

'But those attacks seem to be diversions,' Maia continued, placing four new figures representing the Dark Queen's forces near the western part of her domain. We've had reports of villages and towns sacked between Ur and Geofu, and some scouts reported seeing a large orc force marching towards Ur. The scouts might just talking out of shock, but it's pretty large.'

'How large, exactly?' Claudia Levantine, Shield Princess of Geofu and the alliance's second-in-command, asked.

'My scouts say about 30,000, maybe more.' It was Vault, leader of the Black Dogs and _de facto_ representative of the mercenary forces not attached to Ansur, who answered. 'Olga's finally trying to _end_ this war,' he added, making his emphasis on the word _end_ very noticeable.

Alicia Arcturus, Shield Princess of Feoh, saw some malice behind Vault's words. 'What are you implying, Vault?' she asked with a glare.

'Nothing at all, my lady,' Vault replied, shrugging, 'except that we could have done the same thing three times earlier this year. We allowed the orcs to gather in these numbers by remaining on the defensive.' Maia looked at Vault then, her head almost imperceptibly nodding in agreement.

Alicia gritted her teeth and stood up. 'Now listen here, mercenary,' she began, her anger evident in her tone. 'As we have told you time and time again, launching offensives into Garan might leave our frontier towns undefended. We will _not_ abandon our people the demons.'

' _Might_ leave the towns vulnerable, yes,' Vault said, shaking his head. He looked at Alicia in the eye. ' _Might_. But if we move quickly enough, if we play our cards right, there _might_ not be any demons to attack those frontier towns because they _might_ be fully engaged with our own forces. Don't you want to be on the offensive side for once, Lady Alicia? Don't you want your revenge against the demons for a hundred years' worth of rape and murder? Or are the _mighty_ Knights of Iris only good at cowering behind their fortress walls and delivering platitudes to the people they didn't reach in time?'

Alicia's face started to redden with rage, and some of her knights also began to mutter amongst themselves behind her. Her cousin, Prim Fiore, who was sitting beside her, started to look worried, and gazed alternately between Alicia, who was starting to shake with anger, and Vault, who seemed calm. Even Maia, whose report was all but forgotten by everyone involved, was watching the events intently.

Alicia spoke first. 'You-'

An armoured fist slammed into the table, silencing whatever retort Alicia had.

' _Enough_ ,' Claudia ordered. 'Calm down, Alicia,' she said. 'It is not becoming of a proper knight to lose her temper in council.' In response, Alicia nodded and sat back down but kept her eyes on Vault.

Claudia then turned to Vault. 'And General Vault. I'll not have you baiting the princess in another one of your arguments. Am I clear?'

'Yes, my lady,' Vault said.

'We're in this council to know the situation and discuss what should be done about it, not to point fingers and lay blame,' Claudia continued. 'Isn't that right, Lady Celestine?'

Celestine Lucross, Shield Princess of Ken and known as the Goddess Reborn, did not reply. Instead, she seemed to be intently staring at a single point in the map: a village called Asper.

'Your Holiness?' Claudia called again, giving Celestine a tap on the shoulder.

Celestine was jolted back to full alertness by her subordinate's action.

'Ah! Y-yes, of course,' she said. She turned to Vault with a conciliatory smile. 'The- the protection of our people is still ever our greatest priority. But don't worry, General Vault. The time to strike at the Black Fortress will come. I have seen it.'

'As her Holiness says,' Vault said with a smile of his own.

The meeting then continued as Celestine told Maia to carry on with her report. The situation as the Alliance knew it was explained, proposal and counter-proposal were thrown about by everyone in attendance, courses of action were considered, and compromises were made. In the end, the drama that unfolded near the beginning of the meeting cast its shadow over the entire affair, and there was an awkward atmosphere that everyone could not simply ignore. In the end, though, the Alliance did manage to conclude with a clear course of action: to keep their forces mobile and ready to respond to any demonic invasion, just like the other times.

For her part, Celestine did not seem to be fully focussed on the meeting. As her fellow Shield Princesses and nobles argued around her, she remained silent, staring at the village of Asper or thinking hard about some other issue. The others present in the meeting noticed, most of them simply ascribed her lack of focus on worry for her people or the stresses of leadership. Only her closest confidant, Claudia, understood what she was really going through.

'You were out of it again today,' Claudia told her after the meeting, long after the others had left the room. 'The others are beginning to worry.'

'I'm sorry, Claudia,' Celestine replied, her voice almost a whisper. 'I… I have a lot on my mind again.'

'Those visions?' Claudia asked. 'That "undead king" you kept seeing? What was his name again? Seti?'

It's Settra,' Celestine said. 'His name is Settra.'

'Did you finally understand why you kept seeing him? Is he a symbol of anything?'

'I'm still not sure,' Celestine said, sighing. 'But I saw him fighting again. Demons this time, thousands of them, from a portal that opened up in his city.'

'He fights demons? Does that mean he's on our side?'

Celestine shook her head. 'He was fighting men in the last vision and his fellow undead in the one before that. All that my recent visions have in common is that he emerges victorious over everyone he battles with. The only thing I'm certain of now is this: whoever he is or whatever he may symbolise, this Settra may be our greatest foe or our greatest hope.'

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 **And that is it for now. The next part will be out… when it's done. I'd like to thank Danteinfernus for his advice. Let's see if I can pull some of them off. Also, I checked out VNDB to see what the characters I'm writing about looked like and my reaction was 'Oh my Settra, this is ridiculous.' I mean, I know it's porn and all, but there are regular clothes, there are sexy clothes, and there's immersion-breakingly ridiculous. I'm still conflicted as to whether those costumes will be good for this story or not.**


	3. Asper

**Good news: I found a map of Eostia from a review site. That helped me add a bit more details, which would hopefully develop the world more as I frantically cobble together a plot while pretending that I have everything planned out. All is well, don't worry. Anyway, here's a story about a bunch of OCs you don't care about to prepare for the Khemrikhara's descent upon the world.**

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Chapter I  
Part 2: Asper

' _A wise man once said that the outcome of a war can be changed in a single decisive moment: they who were once victors can find themselves scattered and defeated, and a previously defeated force can suddenly see fortune turning to their side_ _._ _This is true. Asper, a little village in the shadow of_ _the mightiest of_ _fortress-cit_ _ies_ _, was the site of the fateful battle that turned the tide not only of the war against the Dark Queen, but of history as a whole._ _'_

– _excerpted from_ The Chronicle of the Hundred-Year War _by M. Koelber_

More than a month had passed since the Seven Shield Alliance's grand war council in Ken. As agreed upon in the council, the armies of the Alliance had to be redeployed to better resist the demonic horde thought to be headed towards Ur, which, by their estimation would reach them in a fortnight.

Mere days after the war council, the Alliance's regular and mercenary troops were ordered to requisition all the horses, mules, and wagons they could and await further orders. After all, while a force of 30,000 demons was indeed formidable, the fortress-cities have withstood assaults of such scale before and survived, though they did require significant repairs. A week later, when the first scouting parties returned from Garan, the first orders to move west to Ur reached troops stationed in the eastern regions. A week after that, when even more scouting parties were sent out and less of them returned alive, the orders to move west became more frequent and more urgent; the Alliance's commanders saw the full extent of the Dark Queen's latest invasion force. Suddenly, the words of the leader of the Black Dogs seemed much less exaggerated.

One of the units ordered to move westward was a 300-strong warband of Black Dogs stationed at Ansur. This warband, which was composed mostly of raw young men who had not yet proven themselves worthy of fully joining the Black Dogs, started its westward trek as soon as the messengers delivered the orders. The warband marched with the captain and most senior sergeants in front, the pack animals and wagons laden with supplies for the journey in the centre, and rows of troops, ten abreast, behind the officers and the wagons.

The first few days of the march were difficult. Anxious to reach Ur as quickly as possible, the troops marched hard, making use of every single shred of daylight he could to march double-time across the hilly terrain between Ansur and Rad. Such was their haste that they quickly outpaced the other companies that set out alongside them. However, on the fourth day of the march, when they passed the rocky hills surrounding Ansur and reached the woodlands of Rad's hinterland, the captain saw that they were making good time and slowed their pace a bit.

Whilst in the forests, the troops occasionally saw roving bands of dark-cloaked huntsmen, some human but most composed of halflings armed with oversized weapons. The sight of the childlike halflings carrying giant hammers and axes should have been funny, but the hard-edged looks on their eyes and the grisly trophies some of them carried – teeth, claws, the occasional skull or head of some ferocious beast – showed that those huntsmen were trained and experienced killers. Their sight was a grim reminder of the war the aspiring Black Dogs were going towards.

As they travelled east, the woods gradually thinned out and gave way to the great plain that served as the breadbasket of the fortress-cities.

As they marched through the cobblestone road to Ken, the troops saw a veritable sea of grain, of wheat and barley swaying in the light wind. Small clusters of trees were visible in the distance, looking like looming green islands against the golden grains. The harvest season was just upon them, and the troops saw ruddy-faced farmers, men and women, young and old, beginning to reap the fruits of their labour. Many of them called out to the passing mercenaries, wishing them well, raising a hand, or tipping a hat in greeting, which the mercenaries were only too glad to answer. It was a calm, peaceful scene, one that greatly contrasted with the huntsmen in the forest and made it almost hard to believe that land was in the middle of a war.

After half an hour of marching, the troops' destination soon resolved itself in their sight: the village of Asper. It was a picturesque settlement, its neatly-arranged rows of houses and shops dominated by the steeple of its temple to the Goddess. With the bountiful wheat fields in front of it, an apple orchard to its left, green pastureland to its right, and the reddening early afternoon sky as a backdrop, Asper seemed like an image right out of a painting.

Asper was a small village twelve miles south of Ken, located on a crossroads between three different fortress-cities: Ken, Rad, and Geofu. It only had roughly a hundred and fifty inhabitants, though frequent visits by outsiders often made it seem more crowded than it actually was. It was a farming community, one of the most productive in the region, and its generous harvests of grain are perhaps just as essential to the defence of Ken as that fortress's walls. And since it was protected by the mightiest of the fortress-cities, Asper grew peaceful and prosperous, its people friendly and welcoming of outsiders. Thus, when they reached the village and asked to set up camp next to it, the mercenary band was warmly welcomed by the villagers.

Expecting another relatively easy day's march ahead, the Black Dog captain decided to give the aspirants the rest of the afternoon off as soon as they finished setting up their tents.

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Marcus sat alone in the tent, making little adjustments on his clothing before leaving. His well-worn trousers and leather gloves fit as snugly as ever, and the new leather boots his older brother made as a farewell gift were as good as he repeatedly insisted. The helmet the village blacksmith agreed to make for him at a significant discount thanks to lingering affection for him (or more precisely, his mother) fit quite snugly, though he didn't wear it at the moment. However, his gambeson, which he spent a good portion of his salary working as a helper in the family farm, chafed at his neck a bit. It wasn't much, though, just a nagging little feeling at the base of the neck, nothing that should catch his attention in battle. He then buckled his belt, a going-away gift from his mother, slung the shield that he spent yet another good part of his savings on over his shoulder, and took his most prized possessions: a dagger and an arming sword, mementos from the father he so fondly remembered from early boyhood.

As he got his equipment in order and put the rest of his things next to his rolled-up bedroll, the band on his right sleeve caught his eye. It was a bright red band that bore a familiar symbol, the same one on the pommel of his father's sword: the dog's head and dagger sigil of the Black Dog mercenaries.

'Ho ho, look at you,' a voice called out from behind him in very obviously feigned admiration. 'Watch out, ladies, here comes Marcus, expiring Black Dog.'

Marcus looked to the direction of the voice with a wry smile. He saw a young man about his age, slim and wiry, blond in contrast with his own brown hair, with a ruddy complexion that speaks of life spend outdoors, bright green eyes, and a mouth that was almost always bent upwards in a self-assured grin. It was a figure he can recognise anywhere: Gav, a friend from his home village. He was clad similarly to him, but he had a mace hanging from his belt alongside his sword as well as an extra dagger. And with a less attractive mother, instead of a proper helmet, he had to make do with a padded coif that was currently hanging from his belt.

'It's _aspiring_ ,' Marcus said, sighing. 'Don't go killing me off yet.'

Gav shrugged. 'Whatever,' he said. 'Knowing big words won't make me rich. The guys and I are going to visit the village. You coming along?'

Marcus hesitated. 'We're in for a long march tomorrow...' he muttered to himself. 'Eh, why not,' he said with a shrug after a moment's deliberation. 'Sure, count me in.'

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

'I'm telling you, the owner's daughter is the best of the lot,' Gav claimed, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face.

'You only think that because you're obsessed with breasts,' Marcus retorted, eliciting chuckles from his companions.

'Typical of virgin pups,' their commanding officer, the Black Dog Sergeant Fulk, added. 'You see, boy, teats ain't only about size. Proportion is important.'

It was the evening, and the men, ten in all, walked back to their camp after dining in the village. The men were members of the same file, the ten-man group that served as the smallest unit of the Black Dogs' command structure. They fought together, marched together, ate together, drilled together, went out on leave together, and slept in the same tent. Naturally, they would be encouraged to develop close camaraderie with each other like a tightly-knit pack of hounds, which the Black Dogs claimed was the source of their effectiveness.

Following that proud tradition of all mercenaries visiting villages, the file spent most of their afternoon in the local tavern. But despite staying in the tavern, they were careful not to drink too much. While the Black Dogs was less strict in matters of discipline than the Alliance's regular armies and drinking isn't technically prohibited, disruptions due to drunkenness still had a range punishments, from flogging to expulsion from the army, depending on severity. More importantly, besides Sergeant Fulk, none of the file were truly members of the Black Dogs yet, and they have not yet received their pay.

With necessity preventing them from drinking without abandon as mercenaries are wont to do in taverns, most of the men of the file fully dedicated themselves to that other custom of mercenaries on leave: attempting to woo the serving-girls with tales of their battle prowess. Only two members of the file, Sergeant Fulk and Marcus, decided to do something else: Fulk contented himself on watching his young charges make fools of themselves whilst Marcus listened to news and exchanged more down-to-earth stories with the farmers and tradesmen who visited for after-work drinks, hoping to see what tomorrow's march would be like.

'Seriously though, the blond one is best,' Bron, another member of the file, said. 'You saw how she looked at me. Complete admiration.'

'More like complete pity,' Marcus quipped. The file burst into laughter again.

'Come on, why do you always have to be like that, Marc?' Bron asked. 'And now that I think of it, I haven't seen you try to talk up the girls.'

'Oh, don't bother with Marcus,' Gav interjected with one of his signature smirks. 'He still hasn't gotten over my elder sister, you see.'

Marcus smarted as if from a slap. 'I- you...' he began, trying to collect his thoughts. 'I was… I was fourteen years old and I was stupid. You know that,' he said insistently.

'Ooh, what's the story with that?' Bron asked.

'Nothing,' Marcus quickly replied.

Gav chuckled. 'You were only fourteen three years ago,' he told Marcus. He turned to the others. 'Marcus here was in love with my sister for a long time. He didn't have the balls to confess, though. She ended up marrying his brother last year. I still remember that really awkward smile he gave when congratulating them.' Gav began to chuckle but held back his laughter to give more details. 'Oh, and here's what my sister told him: "You've always been like a brother to me".'

More laughter erupted from the file, this time at Marcus's expense. Marcus laughed along with the others.

'If you think that's bad, Gav was once madly in love with my mother,' Marcus said once the laughter started dying down.

'Oh, do tell,' another member of the file said. Gav shot Marcus a pleading look, which the latter chose to ignore.

'Gav's been in love with my mother since we were six,' Marcus began. '"I'm going to marry you when I grow up, ma'am! I promise I won't die early!"' he said with a higher-pitched voice. 'That's what he told my mother once.' The men laughed their loudest yet.

Gav's face reddened with embarrassment. 'How did you even know that?' he asked.

'What do you think we talk about in the dinner table at home?' Marcus asked in return.

The file then engaged in more light-hearted conversations about the tavern girls and their own failed love lives as they merrily trudged their way back to camp, meeting with other files who also spent their day in the village on the way. They reached the camp as the full moon began to rise from the east.

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

The troops' camp was a circle consisting of 30 large pavilions, one for the captain and his direct subordinates and one for each file, with the town directly above it and a small well to its right. It had a gap in its southern end to act as an entrance. There was a campfire in the centre of the circle, around which some of the troops sat in groups, talking, eating, or gambling. Captain Julius sat in front of his tent in the northern end of the camp. Senior Black Dogs, identified through their signature green leather armour and the dog's head and dagger symbol on their left pauldrons, were assigned as sentries: two of them stood at the camp's entrance, six were stationed in pairs opposite the entrance and at the circle's flanks, and two were guarding the animals. All of them bore a sword in one hand and a torch in the other. A camp's wagons were traditionally placed around the camp to act as a makeshift palisade, but since the warband only had ten wagons, not nearly enough to enclose the camp, they were instead arranged in a circle beside the camp to protect the pack animals as they slept.

Sergeant Fulk's file reported back to Captain Julius and went to their tent to turn in for the night. They were arranged in a circle with most of their belongings collected in a pile in the middle surrounding the pole that holds up the tent. They all slept with their swords and shields beside them. As they entered the tent, they saw the other files beginning to do the same and the captain and a sergeant putting out the campfire.

'Long day tomorrow,' Sergeant Fulk said as the file lay in their bedrolls, keeping his voice low in case anyone was already sleeping. 'If the roads are clear and the weather's good, we'd reach Geofu in two days. From there, it's a three-day march to Ur.'

'The next road we'll take should be clear,' Marcus added, 'though the roads from Geofu will be packed. The villagers say the Shield Princesses are ordering citizens to evacuate the Ur region until further notice.'

'That sounds pretty serious,' Bron said. 'What do you think that means, Sarge?'

'It means we're gonna be in for quite a fight,' Fulk replied. 'You've all heard the rumours, no doubt; thousands of demons charging into civilised lands to butcher our men, rape our women, and eat our children. That's likely true. But thanks to Lady Celestine's visions and our scouts, we know exactly where and when they'll attack: Ur, two weeks from now. And since we know where they're coming from and how many there are, we know how to beat them. You're a good bunch of boys. Stick with me, follow the captain's orders, and you'll all be Black Dogs in no time.'

The rest of the file, at least, those who were still awake, gave small grunts of approval as they turned in to sleep.

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

Marcus opened his eyes in the dead of night. He chose to sleep with most of his armour on to get some extra protection from the chilly autumn evening and to save on time in the morning, but after a few hours of restful sleep, the chafing at his neck finally became uncomfortable enough to wake him up. He adjusted his gambeson and closed his eyes again to try to get as much sleep as he could before dawn, but he heard a shuffling noise from somewhere inside the tent. He tried to ignore it as best he could, but he kept hearing it, and it seemed to be getting closer. Annoyed, he lifted his head and looked around, thinking that it was some small animal that made its way into the file's tent.

With a weak glow from outside as his only light source, Marcus saw the silhouette of something standing beside Bron. The shape seemed vaguely humanoid, and he thought that it was someone's child or something. His slowly-waking mind then realised that a child had no place in the camp, and he saw the 'child' holding something in its raised right hand.

Marcus saw the telltale gleam of a dagger.

He bolted out of his bedroll, drawing his sword as he stood, and stabbed at the creature before it could could stab Bron. His hasty strike hit the goblin square in the gut. It gave a high-pitched cry, one that could not have come from a human throat, and it staggered backwards when Marcus pulled back his blade. The two other goblins in the tent were alerted of their brother's cry and rushed at Marcus from behind, but he heard them coming and swung his sword in a horizontal cut as he turned, slicing one goblin in the chest and forcing the other one to jump back.

The rest of the file all scrambled to attention, awakened by the first goblin's cry. The last goblin collided with Gav, who bashed the back of its head with the pommel of his sword before stabbing its skull.

Now completely alert, the file looked to Sergeant Fulk for orders. The sergeant was about to tell them to form out outside the tent, but he had no need to; they heard another pained cry from one of the other tents, an unmistakably human one.

'Out of the tent! Follow me!' Fulk barked, taking up his shield before exiting the tent. Marcus and the rest of the file also took their shields and headgears before forming up.

The camp was most certainly awakened by the attack, with men spilling out of their tents and into the open space in the middle of the camp. Some of the men had no time to wear all of their armour, and most went without helmets in their haste. On the opposite side of the camp, Marcus saw two goblins fleeing from a tent, only to be cut down by the men emerging from the tents beside it. He also noted with concern that no one left the two tents beside them. At the corner of his eye, he also saw the one of the sentries sprawled on the ground, lying on a pool of his own blood.

Captain Julius was the last of the troops to leave his tent, carrying two scrawny goblin corpses that he threw to the ground.

The men then smelled an all-too-familiar scent.

'Is that… smoke?' Gav asked, giving voice to everyone's thoughts. Some of the men looked out of the camp and saw where the smoke was coming from.

Their supply wagons were on fire. One of them was already burnt up.

'To the wagons!' Captain Julius ordered, pointing his sword forward. 'Put out those fires! Save the supplies!'

As the captain barked out his orders and the men rushed to obey, the four goblins that remained in the camp took advantage of his distraction and charged at him from both flanks, two on each side. However, the captain heard their approach. He swung his shield, hitting the goblins to the left, and struck to the right in a wide slash that caught both of the charging goblins' throats. He turned to his left as the two goblins collapsed suffocating, their dark-coloured arterial blood freely spurting out of their wounds. The two remaining creatures, who witnessed their brethren die in one slash, hesitated to carry out their attack, so the captain took the initiative and lashed out with his sword, skewering one goblin between the eyes. The other one decided to run instead of facing the captain, but was caught by one of the men and cut down by a stab to the heart.

As the captain fought the goblins, most of his men were at work putting out the fires in the cabin. Men shovelled dirt into the flames with their hands or what tools they could get, some stamped on the smaller flames, others took buckets and tried to draw water from the well, and others took out what supplies they could from the burning wagons. The fire was promptly put out and the men managed to save most of the supplies. But they noticed that the animals, who were wallowing in pools of blood, throats cut in their sleep, were beyond saving.

'Damn those bastards,' Gav spat as he wiped his hands free of dirt, once again giving voice to everyone's thoughts. 'Where'd they even come from?'

None of the men had any time to listen to his rhetorical question, however, for all the men of the warband were looking at a point to the right of Asper. Some of them were wide-eyed, their mouths gaping like beached fish. Others looked on with grim expressions, eyes squinted and mouths set in frowns. Gav followed the direction of their gaze and saw what got them so shocked: torch lights, hundreds of them, thousands, perhaps, their flames revealing the stout, bestial outlines of approaching orcs.

In the face of such a sight, Gav could only say one thing.

'Fuck.'

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

It was a cool autumn night in the Palace of Ken. Dressed in a long, simple nightgown, Claudia stood at the terrace connected to her room, looking at the full moon whilst absent-mindedly swirling a goblet of wine with one hand. The night was quiet and peaceful, but her thoughts were nothing of the sort.

Claudia thought on the looming battle out in the west. She knew that she her presence in Ur would be a great boon to the troops there, but Celestine needed her more in Ken. Alicia, her able protégé, was a skilled general, and Claudia was confident that she can win the day. _Alicia isn't one to simply accept defeat or surrender without a fight_ , she thought. And Maia, one of the greatest duellists of the Alliance and a skilled commander in her own right, and her talents complement Alicia's very well. And if the presence of two of the Shield Princesses wasn't enough to hold Ur, Vault was also on his way to the fortress with the finest of his Black Dogs.

Claudia's thoughts then turned to Vault. The Black Dogs' commander was an able commander and a warrior without peer, yes, but the Shield Princess was not fully comfortable with his lust for glory. He was a good man, that she knew from ten years of working with him, eager to win victories against the demons, but she noticed his demeanour slowly change as the war progressed.

Vault once wholeheartedly agreed with the Shield Princesses' policy of placing the citizens' protection as their highest priority, but as the war dragged on with no clear end in sight, he started calling for expeditions to Garan itself. He especially wanted an assault on the Black Fortress, volunteering himself as commander of the expeditionary force. _His intentions are plain as day_ , she thought. _As conqueror of the Black Fortress, he would have a legitimate chance of being named Lord of Garan. And of course, Lady Celestine would have to give him the title._ She also didn't discount the fact that Vault would be willing to betray them if he didn't have his way. However, despite her best efforts to expand the fortress-cities' militias and the regular field armies of the Alliance, the Black Dogs still made up about a third of their entire force.

Claudia took a sip of her wine and leaned on the terrace's balcony. _Well, I'm certain Vault won't betray us in the middle of the war_ , she thought. _But it will be best to remain cautious._

As Claudia looked at the moon, her thoughts turned elsewhere: to her liege-lady and friend, Celestine Lucross. The Goddess Reborn's worsening condition was the reason she elected to stay in Ken, with her uncontrolled visions worsening to the extent that she couldn't just scry for the great enemy horde's positions and the Alliance had to rely on more traditional scouting to follow their progress. These were not regular visions, Claudia knew, because the Goddess Reborn was always able to tap into the future at will. These new ones, though, plagued her insistently, and she claimed they were getting more vivid. _This undead king,_ Claudia thought, _this Settra. What is he, truly? Does he symbolise a new threat, I wonder? But Lady Celestine also said he might be our greatest hope. Can he_ _symbolise_ _some sort of new weapon we need to discover_ _before the Dark Queen does_ _?_

As Claudia deliberated and sipped her wine, she heard a blood-curdling scream from the next room. From Celestine's room. Putting down her goblet on the balcony, she ran towards the Celestine's room, taking her sword as she sprinted past it.

She reached the front door of Celestine's room in a matter of seconds, and she saw that a pair of her Dawn Templars were already trying to open the door using a master key. When the lock clicked, she pushed the door open and burst into the room, her two knights at her heels.

As the Dawn Templars moved to check the window for signs of intrusion, Claudia went straight to the bed. Parting the bed's curtains, she saw that Celestine was sitting up, pale and dishevelled, arms protectively wrapped around herself. She made no sound, but she was crying, two thin lines of tears flowing from glazed and unfocussed eyes.

'No sight of forced entry here, my lady,' one of the Dawn Templars reported from the other side of the bed. 'In fact, we saw no sight of anything trying to enter the room.'

'Good work,' Claudia replied, keeping her eyes fixed on Celestine. 'You may leave now. Close the door behind you.'

'Of course, my lady.'

Dropping her sword on the floor, Claudie tried calling out to her liege.

'My lady,' she softly called. Celestine did not reply.

'Celestine,' she said, touching her shoulder. 'It's me. It's Claudia.'

Life slowly returned to Celestine's eyes. When she saw who was in front of her, She tightly threw her arms around Claudia, and sobbed freely.

Concerned for her friend, Claudia returned the embrace. She felt that Celestine was shivering.

'You're safe now, my lady' she said, rubbing Celestine's back to comfort her. 'I'm here for you.'

'He's real,' Celestine whispered as she calmed down a little. 'He's real. He's here.'

'I won't let him harm you,' Claudia said as she tightened her embrace, her voice firm. 'You're safe with me.'

Celestine started sobbing again. 'You don't understand, Claudia!' she blurted out as she cried on her friend's shoulder. 'He's here! Settra is here!'

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

 **I added that last bit in an attempt to make up for the severe lack of Settra in this chapter. I'd also like to thank you all very much for the reviews. They make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.**

 **Guest, Perseus12, and Imperial warlord – Well, here you go. I'm continuing this until I finish or I run out of ideas, I guess. But i-i-it's not because I l-l-like you or anything.**

 **The Advisor – You and your little white bird seem like really trustworthy fellows. If I were to run an empire, I'd make you a trusted councillor, no questions asked.**

 **Snoogenz – That's also what I think. The canon clothes would be good to snark about in the times when I take Settra's point of view, but I bet that would quickly get old.**

 **Lorenz98 – Those were actually orcs in Galbaraz. Of the Top Knotz tribe, in fact, in my _Total Warhammer II_ playthrough. The portal Celestine talked about was the beginning of a casting of Foot of Gork (that 'in' in that part was a typo – it's supposed to be 'over'). But if she did get a good look at a daemon or two, I think she'd be fine as long as it isn't a greater daemon or a daemon prince.**

 **ApostleOfWrath – Sweet Sigmar, senpai noticed me! I kid. I saw _Reaper and the Black Dogs_ when I was researching for this chapter, and I'm hooked. I'll go take a look at _That Which is Forbidden_ if time permits. The last scene from this chapter may have been inspired from a similar one in yours. As for the direction this story goes, I'm making it up as I go along. For the moment, it seems to be pointing towards war-fighting-conquest-fun. I'm not sure if I'm good enough to pull off making Settra emotional and humanlike since he's basically Nietzsche's Übermensch in an undead M4 WS7 BS3 S6 T5 W4 I3 A5 LD10 Level 1 Wizard (Lore of Nehekhara) package with a flaming chariot and flaming sword.**

 **Solarblaster, Subzero the Hunter – We all serve the Great King as our abilities direct.**

 **Danteinfernus** **– It will probably involve artillery and skulls.**

 **Guest – That's one way of approaching things, you that culture must be really unique and exotic to put all priority on protecting the shoulders and next to none on the rest of the torso.**

 **And that is it for now. See you next time for the king's arrival. Do remember your protective eyewear and cover your ears, nose, and mouth, though: we're expecting some sand.**


	4. A Golden Apparition

**And we're back. I had to write and rewrite this chapter several times because I noticed that introducing Settra to the rulers of this world far too early would break the story entirely. I gave him a little side quest to occupy his time while he waits to truly make his presence known. If you were expecting a big, awe-inspiring entrance complete with requisite sandstorm and the sun shining down on him and 'I Do Not Serve' from the _Total War: WARHAMMER II_ soundtrack playing in the background, prepare for disappointment. Or wait a few more chapters while I find a more fitting stage to present the king the way he deserves.**

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

Chapter II  
A Golden Apparition

' _O lovely Asper,_ _warm and_ _small,  
with fields of wheat and fruit-trees tall,  
thou art the first, o blessed thing,  
to feel the footsteps of the King._ _'_

– _excerpted fro_ _m a series of children's poems on the Hundred-Year War_

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

The night was slowly fading away into dawn. The black, star-filled sky was gradually turning into a deep blue, and a band of lighter blue was starting to reveal itself in the eastern horizon.

As dawn slowly approached the village of Asper, south of Ken, a small band of men – Black Dog mercenaries and aspirants to that title – stood outside the village to meet their deaths.

The small band was 264 men strong. Due to their losses, instead of being grouped in 100-man companies as normal, the men stood in a single close formation, roughly two files abreast and 13 men deep. Three company banners carried by the company standard bearers fluttered weakly in the first rank, silhouettes of a deeper black in the darkness. The captain stood in the middle of the first rank, each of the file sergeants stood to the right of his men, and the remaining veteran Black Dogs of the warband were placed in the rear rank to act as a solid anchor for the formation.

The band originally had 300 men. 33 of them died in the earlier goblin ambush at the camp. Four men counselled withdrawal or retreat or outright running for their lives, and for their cowardice, the captain ran them all through.

'We fight like dogs, and we die like dogs,' Captain Julius declared as the last man fell. 'We never run.'

There was a tense moment that followed that execution with many of the men staring at the captain, their grips on their swords tightening. It was only when they saw the silhouette of the sleeping village in the distance did they remember why they should not run. At the captain's order, they then formed up and moved forward. After a short stop-over to warn the village elder of the impending danger and advise an evacuation, the men stopped roughly twenty paces north of the village, interposing themselves between the Asper and the bestial horde that threatened it.

 _Thump, thump-thump-thump. Thump, thump-thump-thump. Thump, thump-thump-thump._

The little pinpricks of yellow-white firelight that once barely shone in the horizon increased and grew in brightness, and the sound of drums began to fill the air. The demons had arrived.

Standing near the middle of the fifth rank, Marcus started to make out the approaching horde. How many thousand demons there were, he didn't want to count, but with a single glance, he knew they overwhelmed the men eight to one at the very least. Where he once saw a line of flaming torch lights in the blackness, the enemies were now close enough that the torch flames revealed what they were. For the first time in his life, he saw orcs: about a head taller than he is, as stout as two of him, with muscular arms about as thick as his thigh, and ugly faces that looked like a demented combination of pig and man, some with prominent tusks sticking out of their snouts. The armour the orcs wore varied wildly, from rags and loincloths to boiled leather and mail, and they carried large, crude cleavers, axes, and swords on one hand and torches on the other.

As the enemy horde drew closer, Marcus saw that the horde also included goblins, who scampered and ran past the larger orcs like a twisted parody of children playing at their parents' feet. Like the ones that attacked the camp, these creatures were small and scrawny, the tallest of them just barely reaching a man's waist. Their faces were more human-like than the porcine orcs', but they had large, pointed ears that stretched to either side of their faces, small, stubby noses that resembled that of a bat, and disproportionately large mouths filled with dagger-sharp fangs. Like their orc brethren, the goblins' armour varied widely in nature and quality, and they carried smaller weapons: daggers, short swords, and short bows.

Marcus and the others could also hear the drumming and war chants grow louder. A while ago, they were just slow, constant background noise, like the chattering of men in a public square. As the demons closed in, the men began to clearly make out the crude rhythm of the drums and the chanting that accompanied it. Marcus noted that the series of bestial grunts and growls that made up the orcs' chant also contained some words in the common tongue mixed in: words that made the orcs' intentions for the womenfolk of the village should they get their hands on them very clear.

 _Thump, thump-thump-thump. Thump, thump-thump-thump. Thump, thump-thump-thump._

'This is it, lads,' Sergeant Fulk called out from Marcus's right, the sounds of the demons' march still an insistent background hum. 'The moment of truth. Remember your training and pray to the gods you like best, and we might just get through this.'

Some laughter, tense and sporadic, arose from the men. Marcus simply looked right at his sergeant, as if trying to see whether he really believed that there was a chance they could survive the horde.

'Ho ho, you think I'm not serious,' Fulk continued, an edge of laughter present in his tone. 'You think this is the first time the Black Dogs have been overwhelmed like this? Perish the thought. This is nothing compared to Ogre Ridge four years ago.' He raised his voice a little. 'Ain't that right, Captain?'

'There were fewer of us, more of the demons, half of us were wounded, and our commanding officer was dead,' Captain Julius called out from the front. 'And we were on the edge of the Great Wasteland too. Yes, I'd say that was a bit worse.'

Upon hearing the captain's words, the men's spirits rose a little. Their grips on their weapons became less tense, and their stances became more sure-footed. Some even found themselves briefly smiling despite the situation. They thought that if Captain Julius and Sergeant Fulk could survive Ogre Ridge, they surely knew what they were doing. For their part, the captain and sergeant conveniently left out the fact that of the 200-strong veteran Black Dog rear guard caught by the demons at Ogre Ridge, only six survived the battle because of the timely arrival of reinforcements.

Torches still in hand, the orcs were about thirty paces from the men. The drumming grew slower, the chanting ceased, and it seemed that the orcish horde stood still.

'Here they come, boys,' Sergeant Fulk said. 'Get out of this alive, and no woman in Eostia will be able to resist you.' A few chuckles were heard from some of the men.

'Close ranks,' Captain Julius ordered. 'Form shield wall!'

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

The shield wall is a formation is perhaps as old as the idea of shields, its true origins lost to the mists of time. However, its reliability and utility in battle is truly undeniable. Despite the changes in weaponry, armour, tactics, and entire civilisations, the shield wall remained, a testament to the discipline and tenacity of man. Throughout the Hundred-Year War, the Dark Queen's demonic forces have repeatedly thrown themselves head-on onto the serried ranks of swordsmen and spearmen with interlocking shields and were repeatedly thrown back. Thanks to this proud history, if a man wanted to join the Black Dogs and had proven himself skilled enough with a weapon to do so, one of the very first lessons he would be given, even before he is accepted into the company, is a thorough training into the shield wall.

This time, it was the turn of Captain Julius's men to live up to show the fruits of this training. At the captain's order, the men of the warband's first two ranks locked their shields together and put their swords in the high guard position. Seen from the front, they formed an unbroken row of kite shields, a makeshift rampart of shield and sword-point. Their comrades in the third and succeeding ranks rested their shields on the backs of the men in front of them, prepared to put their entire body weights into pushing forward.

 _Thump, thump. Thump._

The drumming ceased. The demon horde did not seem to stir. For a moment, there was silence in the field.

Then came the inevitable.

 _Thump-thump-thump._ _Thump-thump-thump._ _Thump-thump-thump._ _Thump-thump-thump._

A deep, guttural roar rang out from the demon horde, followed by other roars and growls. The sound of footsteps stamping on open ground echoed throughout the field as hundreds of orcs charged forth, torch in one hand, weapon in another, and baying for blood. In blatant disregard for all subtlety or tactical thought, the demons, in their bloodlust, charged right at the front of the shield wall.

The orcs crashed against the shield wall like a wave against a cliff face. The weight of the orc charge rattled the men, but they held on with grim tenacity. The men of the first two ranks struck back with practised efficiency, biding their time and protecting their fellows with their shields and striking out only once they saw a chance. Behind them, the rest of the men pushed, ensuring that the orcs could not simply roll over the shield wall using their weight of numbers.

A deadly shoving match then ensued between the two sides, the men fighting with discipline and cooperation and the orcs with sheer brute force. Shouted orders, cries of exertion, orcish war drums, bestial grunting, human bugles, battle cries, death screams of men and orcs, and the clash of weapons on shields all combined into the single wordless roar of battle.

'Stand fast!' shouted one voice over the din.

'Push on, boys! Put your backs into it!' another voice called in another end of the shield wall.

'Strike and return! Keep those shields up!' barked yet another one.

With orc blades in front of them and the push of their comrades-at-arms to the rear, the men of the front and middle ranks bore the brunt of the fighting. For most of the battle, Marcus put his focus on pushing the man in front of him. Desperately pushing in front with the shield strapped to his forearm, being similarly pushed with another shield behind him, with men from his file in very close proximity to his left and right, with very little light, and with the sounds of battle and the pungent smells of exertion and death around him, a regular man's entire world would shrink to himself, his shield, and the hot, cramped, miserable space within a hand-span of himself. The distant noises beyond would be someone else's problem.

Marcus, however, slightly prided himself on being better than the average man. He was the best sword in his village, the son of a proud Black Dog mercenary, and an aspirant into the Black Dogs himself. He also spent the last three months of his life being drilled on how a proper shield wall works and what it looked like in different situations, so he knew he was prepared. Thus, when he felt his front give way, he stepped forward into the second rank of the shield wall and planted his feet firmly on the ground with no trace of hesitation. Sword already in hand, he struck at the orc about to strike the man in front of him, hitting home right between two ribs. He was rewarded with an inhuman cry of pain, and he quickly withdrew his arm before another orc noticed it.

Once the orc mob and the men's shield wall made contact with each other, the battle quickly settled into measured, mechanical regularity, with swords striking out and shields being raised in time with the orcs' movements. Every now and again, a man would be hit, failing to anticipate the timing or strength of an orcish foe, but as soon as he falls, a man from one of the rear ranks would step in, shield in place and sword already drawn.

 _Thump-thump-thump._ _Thump-thump-thump._ _Thump-thump-thump._ _Thump-thump-thump._

For what seemed like hours, the men continued the battle, hard-pressed but determined. A man to his left wasn't quick enough to deflect an orc's axe and got his throat cut, blood very briefly bursting out of the gash and blinding an orc that soon joined him in death. Another man's head was cut cleanly in the middle with a downward chop of an orcish axe, and his body fell as a crumpled mess as the demon raised its weapon again. Captain Julius, who early on in the battle swapped places with a file sergeant so he can continue to command his men, was almost beheaded by the same orc, only to deflect the axe with his shield at the last moment and respond with a lethal stab right up the orc's chin and into its brain. With an expression of absolute shock on its bestial face, the orc looked down on the man that killed it, coughed up blood, and expired as the captain withdrew his sword. The orcs, much less organised than the men, could only attempt to press forward or be crushed by the weight of their own battle-hungry compatriots. As the battle continued to rage, at least four demons fell for every man killed or wounded.

The pre-dawn twilight slowly gave way to proper dawn, but Marcus did not seem to feel tired at all. The inside of his armour was hot as an oven and his dry throat was beginning to grow hoarse from the shouting, but his sword arm did not fail and his shield arm remained true. Stab and return, block and deflect, chop and withdraw, he went about the routine actions of the fight without seeming to lose strength. He thought that he was feeling the warrior's spirit that his father once told him about, that seemingly bottomless well of strength a man can draw from if his life is in danger.

He also started to feel that the orcs' attack was slowing somewhat. Their strikes became less certain, and they seemed to be slower on the attack. He could even swear that the shield wall was starting to move forward.

 _We can do this,_ a small voice in his mind started to whisper. _We can push the orcs back. We can win._

But just as the treacherous seed of hope was beginning to grow in his mind, he noticed that the rhythm of the orc drums changed.

 _Thump-thump-thump. Thump._ _Thump-thump-thump. Thump._ _Thump-thump-thump. Thump._

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

'Goblins to the right!'

The warning came a moment too late as hundreds of goblins slammed into the shield wall's vulnerable right flank. With their attention fully on the torch-bearing orcs and goblins at their front, the men did not notice a large detachment of goblins break away from the main body of the horde and launch their own attack under the cover of darkness.

A wave of arrows flew towards the men. Closely-packed in a shield wall as the men were, many of the arrows managed to hit home. The men on right flank – mostly file sergeants – were hit in the sword-arms, the legs, the torsos, and rarely, the necks. Some died instantly, slain by an orc after the shock of being hit, while others, the more unfortunate ones, lived to experience the goblin assault.

A mob of goblins several hundred strong charged at the shield wall as the last of the arrows struck their targets. Goblins armed with bill hooks stabbed into men's arms or shoulders and pulled them to the ground, and other goblins armed with daggers and short swords laid into them with stab after stab, cut after cut. Men died slow, excruciating deaths on the ground as goblins cackled around them.

Captain Julius, who managed to kill no less than thirteen orcs in the course of the battle, was amongst those men, dropping his sword and falling to the ground as a bill hook caught him on a shoulder blade and forced him on his back. White-hot flares of pain assailed him as he tried to pick up his sword and swat the assailing goblins away. After a few minutes of struggling, he died of shock and blood loss, cursing the goblins as he expired.

To make matters worse for the men, the orcs to their front snuffed out all their torches, rendering them blind for several moments. On the other hand, the goblins, with their excellent night vision, carried on as they once did. The orcs were also temporarily blinded, but they adapted to darkness more quickly. They continued their assault as before, all signs of them beginning to falter disappearing with the torch lights.

With another force threatening their flank and a renewed orc assault to their front, the shield wall finally buckled and gave. Heavily-armoured orcs wielding heavy cleavers sliced their way through the middle of the shield wall. The men in the front ranks tried to resist them, but without the push of their comrades behind, they were quickly overwhelmed by orcish numbers and strength. Soon, all semblance of order and discipline disappeared from the battle, and the fighting became individual demon against individual man, strength against strength.

It was a battle the men could not hope to win.

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

The man to Marcus's left fell with a blood-curdling death scream, cut down by an orc's axe. Someone far to his right, who very much sounded like Sergeant Fulk, made a similar scream. There were screams all around him, screams of exertion and pain, screams of orcs and men. But as the world seemed to erupt in sound and fury around him, he stood where he was, shield still locked in front of him and his sword was still raised on high guard.

In truth, Marcus was afraid. He heard calls from behind him to run, and he was sure some of his comrades were trying to run at the moment, but his legs seemed to be frozen solid and his feet rooted into place. Despite the growing din of battle, he couldn't hear anything at the moment but the thunder of his own heart, which seemed to be trying to force its way out of his chest. Wide-eyed and in a cold sweat, his head darted to and fro as he desperately searched the darkness, though he did not clearly know what he was searching for.

A grunting roar tore its way into Marcus's attention as the distinctive silhouette of an orc charged at him, cleaver raised for a two-handed downward swing. He raised his shield to try to deflect the oncoming blow, but he did not react quickly enough. The beast's cleaver split the shield, tore through the rear forearm strap. Marcus felt the hairs on his forearm stand on end as the cleaver slid across the outer part of his gambeson's left sleeve, knowing that he may have lost the entire arm if the orc had aimed lower.

The orc's attack did not stop. As soon as its cleaver hit the ground, it barrelled forward, hitting Marcus square in the abdomen with its shoulders. His breath knocked out of him, Marcus lost his grip on his sword as he fell to the ground. As he scrambled to stand back up, he saw the orc standing before him, its cleaver raised high, prepared to cut him down. With what seemed to him like excruciating slowness, he took the first thing his right hand grabbed from the ground – his sword – and raised it to block the blow, fully realising that it was a futile gesture.

As he looked upwards at the death-blow that he knew would claim him, he instead saw something slice through the orc's arms and neck. The severed parts dropped the ground right in front of him while the rest of the orc's body fell to the side like a puppet with its strings cut. Marcus lowered his sword and beheld his rescuer. What he saw was a sight he would never forget for the rest of his life.

Marcus beheld a vision of gold, of splendour and horror in equal measure.

In front of him stood a man – taller and broader than he was, though exceedingly slim – seemingly glowing with a faint inner light. Over the man's upper chest and shoulders was a piece of armour, turquoise with crimson accents and a gold trim, which looked like a breastplate that extended up to the shoulders or a large gorget that reached down to his chest. In the middle of it lay what appeared to be a brilliant blue brooch fashioned in the form of some manner of insect. A belt of turquoise was wrapped around his waist, with an ornate buckle made of gold and what appeared to be the skull of a large bird of prey and a thick leather-bound book tied to one side. Extending down from the belt was an armoured kilt that appeared to be made of ornately-wrought gold, which extended down to his knees. The golden kilt had a gap in the middle to allow for movement and make room for the belt buckle, revealing another of tattered crimson fabric beneath it. The man had greaves and vambrances of gold and turquoise as ornately-wrought as his armour, and it seemed that even his sandals were made of gold. A tattered white cape fluttered behind him, and he held in his right hand a sword – a large one with a blade almost four feet in length and a handle about a foot long – with a blade curved like a sickle.

On the other hand flesh that peeked out of the golden luxury of the man's armour terrified Marcus. The exposed lower half of his torso showed bleached-white ribs and dessicated organs insufficiently covered by what remained of ancient skin. His limbs were wrapped in crumbling linen bindings, and he didn't want to see what was within them. His face, framed as it was by a high, wide collar of turquoise, crimson and gold and decorated by a finely-crafted ornament that jutted out of his chin like a false beard, was a nightmare image, a skull incompletely wrapped in ancient, leathery skin, his expression fixed in a lipless grimace. Two glowing soul-lights blazed in his empty eye sockets. Marcus also noticed that his left hand and the blade of his exotic sickle-sword were dripping with dark-hued demon blood.

The corpse-man stood motionless before Marcus, the fires it had in place of eyes focussed entirely on him as if assessing his worth. Undead and horrific though he was, he stood with the air of the greatest of warlords, and authority seemed to cloak him like a robe. Marcus was rendered wide-eyed and gaping. He felt his legs shaking. His already parched throat felt dry, and new beads of sweat formed on his brow. His first instinct was to stand up and run away screaming. However, a second instinct began flaring up in his mind, in conflict with the first one.

 _This is a king,_ his mind whispered to him. _Kneel. Th_ _is a king._

Weary, afraid, and unsure of what to do, Marcus awkwardly sat and gawped. For the longest moment of his life, a brittle silence filled the air. It was the king who deigned to break it.

'You fight these beasts,' he rasped, his heavily-accented voice harsh as the midday sun. It wasn't a question. Marcus could only nod frantically in confirmation.

'Then our goals align,' the man continued. 'If it is glory you seek, Settra permits you to follow.' He then turned and strode off, severing the lower jaw of yet another orc with a swipe of his sickle-sword as he left.

There was silence for several heartbeats. Marcus stared at the form of the man – Settra, he called himself – who was stalking off to find prey. _If it is glory you seek_ , he thought. _Glory_. A fine word, one men died for. In truth, glory was the last thing on his mind as he stood alone in the middle of the field. All he wanted was to run, to flee the field, hopefully link up with Gav and the rest of his friends who survived and try to withdraw. _Run off to Ken_ , he thought, _warn the Shields_. The thought rang hollow in his mind, knowing that it was simply a half-hearted excuse to quite the field and possibly make up for the shame of defeat.

 _If it is glory you seek…_

He looked upon Settra's back as he walked off. It was madness to follow him, Marcus knew. He knew two people won't be enough to face a demon horde. _If it is glory you seek_... However, as he looked at the golden corpse-man, he couldn't help but feel that he might have a chance. He looked around the battlefield as he stood back up. The silhouettes around him were still largely indistinct in the growing half-light of dawn, but the sounds of battle seemed to tell him the whole story. Most of his comrades had either run off or died. Few were still fighting. He once again looked at Settra, who just finished off a mob of goblins with a slice of his blade. He didn't know what it was the corpse-man truly had, whether his natural charisma or some unnatural enchantment, but he couldn't seem to help but think he could save them all.

Steeling his resolve, Marcus took a deep breath and went after Settra. The king's words rang in his mind.

 _If it is glory you seek, then Settra permits you to follow._

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

 **And that's it for this chapter. If you're curious about Settra's side quest, one clue of what it is can be found in Marcus's description of him. More precisely, it's _not_ found in the description.**

 **Perseus12 – It is Settra who determines what is good. Of course his intentions are always good… for him. Who knows how the other party would see it.**

 **snoogenz – Despite how much I want it to, alas, it was not meant to be. Not for now, that is. Don't worry, the shit and the fan will indeed find their way to each other eventually.**

 **Subzero the Hunter – That's true, the Tomb Kings indeed retain more of their personalities thanks to the difference between regular peasant necromancy and the kingly Lore of Nehekhara. What I meant by Settra not being 'humanlike' is him not being a regular guy with regular morals that regular folk like you and me can relate to. I also agree with him being like Gilgamesh, though I think there should be at least a little of Iskandar in the mix. After all, Settra inspires so much loyalty his soldiers (especially Nekaph) were willing to commit suicide and be buried with him just so they can serve him again in the next life and Khatep was willing to endlessly wander the Land of the Dead just to give him that immaculate golden body he wanted. Granted, most of that loyalty was probably gained through fear, but he's also noted to be rewarding to his loyal servants. There's also his willingness to sacrifice his children for the sake of his kingdom, I don't know which _Fate_ character I can relate with that. That said, I don't know much about _Fate_.**

 **Danteinfernus – I guess we'll have to find out what Settra is really up to once he finishes the side quest I'm currently distracting him with.**

 **Lorenzo98 – That charisma is perhaps a weapon as deadly as all the Hawk Legions of Settra combined. I'm actually reading up on the earlier _Horus Heresy_ novels to see how common folk react to primarchs as a reference.**

 **Guest – Oh, oh, I did!**

 **Interested Guest – I actually don't watch _Overlord…_ because I read it. Is the anime any different from the manga?**

 **SomeGuyOverHere – I'm not yet completely sure how he'll interact with many of the main characters, but I'm pretty sure a large portion of his interactions with the natives will involve the use of that great communicator, the khopesh.**

 **human dragon – Here you go.**

 **And again, that's it. Tune in again next time to see how I conclude this battle and try to make some sense of the situation.**


	5. Illusions

**Sorry for the delay; I was affected by that usual killer of creativity and robber of free time: work. I also tried to do my research about _Kuroinu_ and attempt to make a geography out of the entire thing. Oh, and I re-read on people like Seti I, Qin Shih Huang Di, and Alexander the Great to attempt to give some characterisation to our favourite King of Kings.**

 **Anyway, I must admit I don't know what to make of this chapter. On the one hand, I really should have finished that Asper battle last time but had to cut it. On the other hand, this one has a slight JoJo reference. Try finding it.**

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

Chapter III  
Illusions

' _As befits their race's tendency towards the use of trickery and guile, the dark elves are known to have developed a branch of their magical lore devoted entirely to deception and artifice, to bend light and sound to their wills. However, as our forces have observed, the effects of spells belonging to this branch seem to have small, unimpressive effects: a hidden dagger, a slight, distracting flash, a half-heard whisper in the wind, or other small tricks. However, given the natural affinity of the elves towards magic, it is entirely possible for the dark elven art of deception to have even more potent spells: it is entirely_ _plausible_ _that some masters of this dark lore are capable of concealing entire armies or creating all-but-impenetrable disguises for themselves. But of course, since encounters with dark elves, much less dark elf magicians, amongst the enemy ranks_ _remains_ _rare, such possibilities remain within the realm of supposition._ _'_

– _excerpted fro_ _m_ On the Magical Arts: A Comprehensive Guide _by John Mandeville_

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

Six orcs charged towards Settra. Six orcs met their doom.

Settra killed three orcs with one wide slash of his sickle-sword, slicing off the first one's lower jaw and the second one's neck and cutting deep into the third one's ribcage. He then tore off the sword in a shower of gore to out the fourth one's axe aside, locking it in beneath the point where the blade curved into a sickle. The orc's weapon fended off, he raised his left fist and punched it right between the eyes. As gathered his resolve and ran to the fight, Marcus could have sworn he heard bone crack. Settra then raised his sword and turned, cutting the fifth orc from shoulder to groin in a downward chop. He pulled back his sword, grabbed the dying fifth orc by the arm, and yanked it left, using it to block the sixth orc's chop, which clove cleanly in the middle of its skull. And as the sixth orc pulled its sword from its fallen brother, Settra swept his blade in a wide horizontal arc, decapitating both the fifth and the sixth orcs. In the fraction of a minute, all the orcs were on the ground, their lifeblood pooling at Settra's feet.

As Settra turned to move on, however, a seventh orc burst into vision behind him, axe raised and ready to strike.

Marcus had no idea why he did what he did next: he ran, shield raised, to meet the orc's axe.

The orc's axe-blow was deflected to the side almost at the last moment. Leaving no chance for the brute to recover, Marcus plunged his blade right beneath its ribs at an upward angle, cutting through leather, skin, and flesh and puncturing its black heart. The orc did not seem to react. He then looked up to see why and saw that the top half of the brute's head had already been sliced off.

A voice sounded from behind Marcus as he lowered his sword and shield, one whose tone spoke of pride and authority.

'Only the finest of warriors have the privilege of defending the King's person,' Settra said. 'A mere child-in-arms will invariably fail.'

Marcus felt his jaw tighten and muscles tense at Settra's words, but he remained still. His weary mind still could not understand whether he should be insulted and what he should do.

'Yet, alone, you stood before an overwhelming foe, and you attempted to attend to the king when you perceived his need,' Settra continued. Marcus thought he heard some trace of praise in the king's tone. 'You have some spirit, warrior. Settra will have your name.'

Marcus turned to face Settra, one glimpse of the horror of his deathly form causing him to keep his head bowed. Rescuer or no, Marcus still felt that cold pit of dread in his gut at the corpse-king's deathly visage.

'I- I am called… Marcus, sir,' he said almost hesitantly, his voice only a bit louder than a whisper.

'Warrior Marcus,' Settra said slowly, as if carefully considering the name. 'Know that I, Settra, rescued you from certain death, for I have seen in you the shadow of greatness. Do not disappoint me.'

Marcus lifted his head up and faced Settra eye-to-eye. He slightly flinched at the undead king's fiery gaze, but he forced himself to keep looking. Settra's earlier words echoed in his mind. _If it is glory you seek…_

'Of course, sir,' he replied. 'I swear I'll prove you right.'

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

True dawn finally arrived on Asper, bringing a blue-hued half-light to the village and the surrounding fields. The orcs, having broken the small band of men, were driving forward, hunting down stragglers, finishing off the small pockets of resistance that took to hiding in Asper's shops and houses, and scouring the village itself to see if there was any loot worth taking or women worth ravaging.

But whilst the orc vanguard was beginning to despoil the village, their rear lines were in turmoil. Two men – one living and one undead – carved their way towards the centre of the orcish horde.

As they advanced, Settra and Marcus were assailed by mobs of at least as few as four or as many as a dozen orcs, their attention grabbed by the eerie golden glow that seemed to emanate from within Settra. The undead king slew any orc that came within the range of his sickle-sword with what Marcus could only describe as contemptuous ease, cutting down brutes with blade and fist, merciless and untiring.

A few steps behind him, armed with his father's sword and a reasonably intact shield he picked up from the field, was Marcus. With the Settra commanding the attention of most of the orcs, the young warrior had to deal with one brute at a time. And with single-minded determination he was surprised to have, he held his own, taking his share of orc lives with sword and shield.

As the second orc he slew in single combat fell to the ground, Marcus looked at turned to look at Settra and saw a golden blur of motion severing the limbs of any demon within range. Even as he followed the corpse-man, he still had no idea what he was. He half-believed him to be a delusion of his, or else a ghost or a spirit or something of that nature. But as far as he knew, his delusions didn't kill anything, and spirits didn't slice orcs with giant swords.

Marcus heard the familiar stamping of orcish feet approaching. He briefly took stock of his condition: all of his lead-heavy limbs ached with effort, his sweat-matted body felt like it was boiling, he was panting like a dog for breath, and his grip on his sword and shield were starting to give. Running away is not an option because for all he knew, he was in the middle of the orcish horde. But to his surprise, he was strangely calm and prepared to fight. For reasons beyond his weary mind, Settra's words seemed to resonate with something deep within his spirit.

 _I have seen in you the shadow of greatness_ , Settra's voice echoed in his head. _Do not disappoint me._

 _I made my promise,_ he thought. _Time to prove him right_.

Marcus found himself face-to-face with an unusually large orc clad in a ragged loincloth and armed with two heavy clubs. In the dim light of dawn, he saw the suggestion of markings on the orc's skin. He realised the creature is possibly one of the drummers of his horde. The drummer snarled and grunted a challenge at him. In response, he raised his shield and tapped it once with his sword: a gesture of challenge, as he was informed in training. The orc grunted again and slammed its clubs together, and he responded by striking his shield twice: one strike was a challenge, two times was an insult. With a low growl, the orc drummer attacked, its clubs swinging.

Right into Marcus's trap.

After dodging one wild swing and blocking the other, Marcus slammed the wedged end of his shield down on the orc's exposed foot. The orc howled in pain and surprise, and Marcus drove his sword towards its throat. He then pulled back his sword and took a few steps back, leaving the orc to spend its last few moments on its knees, gurgling on its own blood. Keeping his shield raised and stance ready, he looked around for more enemies as the orc fell on its face, dead.

As the orc fell, Marcus saw Settra standing behind it, staring at him as if he watched the battle without doing anything to help. He wondered if this was some sort of test, but he looked at Settra's left hand and saw him clutching the skull of a bloody and still-twitching orc corpse: he was also just done with his enemies.

Settra gave a small, almost imperceptible nod before turning to one side and sprinting off, his next targets already in his sights. Marcus couldn't help but swell with pride, but he kept his expression neutral and kept his attention on the battlefield. Tired as he was, though, he had to stop to catch his breath.

Marcus's rest did not last long.

Almost as soon as he stopped, he heard a shuffling noise behind him, slightly to his right. Remembering the goblins in the tent earlier, he quickly turned his shield to the direction, only to be met with an impact on his shield that most certainly wasn't a goblin.

The impact was followed by another, and another, and Marcus was forced to take one, then two steps back. He had no time to think about his next action, and it was all he could do to angle his shield to deflect the next blows.

One lucky strike managed to get inside Marcus's shield and cut through its straps, and for the second time in the battle, he found himself bereft of a shield. Taking two more steps back to put space between himself and his assailant, he held his sword with both hands in the middle guard position and looked at his foe for the first time.

It was by far the largest orc he had ever seen, clad in iron scale armour adorned with with crude inscriptions, human skulls, and all manner of grisly decorations to show its rank or combat prowess. Its arms, almost as thick as tree trunks, rippled with muscle, and its fists, the size of Marcus's head, were wrapped in leather gloves whose knuckles contained iron spikes. Marcus was quite certain this was the chieftain of the demon horde.

He considered calling to Settra for help, but in the corner of his eye, he saw the undead king dealing with his own mob of demons, perhaps a dozen of them, and was more than ten paces away. He turned his full attention to the giant orc again, and he saw that unlike its lesser brethren, it did not grunt or stamp or make any animalistic threat as usual in its kind. It simply glared down at Marcus, completely assured of its own superiority over the little human.

Marcus and the orc chieftain began circling each other, remaining at four paces from each other, each fighter sizing the other up for any weaknesses. Marcus could feel his heart drumming furiously in his chest, and he attempted to tighten his grip on his sword. Meanwhile, the orc seemed calmer than any human would give a creature like it credit for, with no small movements or anything that showed tension of any kind.

With a speed that seemed to belie its size, the orc closed the distance with Marcus in one leap and struck, its spiked right fist aimed right at Marcus's head. The young warrior feinted left and tried to strike back, but the brute already followed up with a downward hammer-blow of its left fist. Marcus blocked the arm at the last minute, his sword hitting the orc's vambrance with a ring of metal on metal. Marcus was surprised that piece or armour was also iron, thinking that it at looked like boiled leather. He retreated one more step, knowing that each step backward was a step away from help but having no other choice.

The orc chieftain unleashed a flurry of assaults faster than a creature its size had any business to be. With nothing but a nearly inaudible hiss of effort, its fists seemed to come from all directions – above, below, from the left, from the right – and Marcus could do nothing but attempt to block with his sword and retreat even further. Without any time to think, he had nothing to rely on but reflex. At the back of his mind, he wondered why the orc didn't seem to be putting all of its weight behind its punches before realising that it was toying with him. He successfully blocked the brute's right fist as it came down from above, but he didn't notice the left one shooting up from below. He tried to back away before it hit home, but he felt a searing pain in his torso as a spike made an unnaturally clean diagonal gash from his waist to his chest, staining his white gambeson red. While the cut was shallow thanks to his thick gambeson, the pain it brought was intense, and Marcus was again forced to back away.

The orc didn't give him any more breathing room. It came at him again, its two fists hooking in two simultaneous strikes to both sides of his head.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Marcus's knees unexpectedly buckled with fatigue, and the two massive fists only hit the top of his helmet. There was a metallic scraping, followed by a ringing sound as the spikes of the orc's gauntlets met each other.

Thanking the gods for this stroke of fortune and pushing himself with all his willpower, Marcus forced himself to stand and deliver an upward strike, right at the orc's exposed throat. Before the orc could fall back, the sword lashed upwards, and Marcus saw that it struck home.

However, he didn't feel anything: not his sword hitting anything, not the resistance of orcish skin and flesh, nothing. His sword seemed to harmlessly pass through the orc's t hroat.

That was the moment Marcus realised the truth of the matter: this was no orc.

Knowing that its trick had been seen through, the false orc leapt back, but Marcus was right at its heels. He was on his last burst of strength, this much he knew, and he had to kill this creature quickly. He swung his sword at its chest, hoping its head was somewhere there, and was blocked by the creature's left forearm and had to avoid an outward sweep by its right one. Marcus realised the creature was at least his size, certainly slimmer and less muscular than an orc, and armed with a pair of swords at least as long as the orc's forearm. He kept up his attack with a two-handed chop at the chest, and was blocked by both of the creature's swords. As the creature's defence seemed to sag under his chop, Marcus realised something else: it was as also exhausted.

He raised his right leg and kicked hard at what he hoped was the creature's chest, and it buckled with a distinctly feminine-sounding cry. As the creature knelt on the ground, air seemingly driven from its lungs, Marcus swung his sword horizontally, finishing it off with a slash to where its throat should be. It fell to the ground, and its illusionary orcish disguise dissipated like fog at sunrise. As her life fully ebbed away, Marcus saw his enemy: a woman, lithe yet voluptuous, clad in skimpy black leather armour that accentuated her form, her long hair tied to one side. She was indeed armed with two short leaf-bladed swords and a strange red orb hung from a chain in her waist, and in the dawn light, Marcus could see that she had darker skin. She looked almost human save for one defining feature: her ears, which were long, blade-like, and pointed sideways.

 _A dark elf_ was the only thought Marcus gave the battle. Taking a deep breath as he prepared to follow Settra, he stepped forward, only for his knees to buckle once more. He fell to his arms and knees and struggled to stand, but a powerful wave of exhaustion seemed to hit him. He knew he was tired, yes, but he thought that he shouldn't be this tired. And that shallow cut a while ago shouldn't have caused him to lose so much. As he fell to the ground, his eyes caught the dead dark elf's swords, and he realised she must have put something in them. The last thing he saw was the rising sun, and Settra, the bloodied form of the real orc chieftain before him, raising his sword seemingly in salute of it. And before he blacked out, he could have sworn he heard trumpets.

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

The blast of trumpets sounded from the west as Settra accomplished what he set about to do. Ptra's fiery chariot emerged from the eastern horizon, and the King of Mankind raised his khopesh in acknowledgement of the King of the Gods. Before him lay the chief of the swine-men that would feel the full brunt of his vengeance, and around him lay the corpses of what counted as its elite guard: towering muscular creatures with small horns growing out of their foreheads, clad in iron scales and armed with massive two-handed cleavers. Settra smote them with great vengeance along with the swine-men that dared offend him with their presence, and all fell before the wrath of the king.

Settra turned to see how the young warrior, Marcus, he said his name was, fared in his own battle. He saw him collapse to the ground in front of the slight form of the false chieftain whom he discerned using their footprints and the size of their stride. The warrior did not seem to have any outward sign of wounding, and the slight wound he saw earlier did not significantly slow him down, so he should simply be exhausted. Or he was poisoned.

The king considered the boy's fate. After all, while he rescued him purely by chance, he indeed saw some spark of greatness within him. True, Settra saw that he only stayed in the fight because he was too afraid to run, but of course, what is courage but the will to do one's duty in spite of fear? And of course, a king could always use more servants.

Settra was once again reminded of a servant from Lost Khemri, a young warrior with a similar spark of greatness, who, driven by the desire to serve his king, overcame his barbarian origins and strove to become the greatest of warriors. Eventually, he became an esteemed member of Settra's elite bodyguard and was granted the honour of wielding the holy Flail of Skulls and representing his king in the field of battle to his death and beyond it. Perhaps one day, if he survives, this Marcus could be half the servant his herald once was.

If he survives. The approaching trumpets intermingled with the all-too-familiar sound of steel clashing against steel, and Settra knew the young warrior had been reinforced. If he is strong enough, he may be of use. Perhaps.

Settra looked at the swine-men's debased chieftain again. Its arms were broken, its legs reduced to stumps, and its lifeblood was freely flowing out of its body, but its chest still heaved up and down, a sure sign of life. Its resilience reminded the king of the similarly green-skinned Orochites of the Old World. This toughness served the king's purposes well. After all, he still had some questions for it.

Settra lifted the creature with his left hand and carried it over his shoulder as he left the field before the rest of the living arrived. Not once did it cross his mind to call upon these living reinforcements and recruit them for his vengeance. After all, a king who can only gain his crown with the aid of foreign powers is no king at all.

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

Almost a thousand Black Dogs, cavalry and veteran infantry, arrived in Asper before sunrise. The demon horde outnumbered them three to one, but they had the advantages of shock and surprise. With trumpets blaring to mark the charge, the Dogs split into two groups: one to rescue the few young bloods still fighting within the village and the other – led by Vault himself – to strike at the orcs' exposed right flank.

Both attacks were devastatingly successful. The Black Dogs struck deep into the demon lines before meeting any sign of resistance. As he stopped his horse right behind the front line, Vault noted the lack of order in the orc drums and came to one conclusion: somewhere in the middle of the horde, some Black Dogs – veterans like Julius or Fulk, more likely, but also possibly at least some of the new bloods – managed to take out the orcs' chieftain and lead drummer. And he knew that the chances are slim, but they could still be alive back there. Such able warriors had no business dying on a backwater like this.

He hopped down from his horse, unstrapped his massive greatsword from his back, and raised it to the sky.

'Come on, you dogs!' he roared. 'Some of our brothers are still back there! Follow me!'

As most of his troops kept up the advance, Vault let three files of his elite two-handed swordsmen on a desperate charge. They hacked, slashed, and cleaved their way across orc after orc, causing even more panic to spread across the already faltering horde. By sunrise, they were in full flight, many of them chased and cut to pieces by Black Dog cavalry. The Battle of Asper ended with 252 men and almost a thousand demons slain. Of the original Black Dogs, 12 men survived.

Marcus woke up to the feeling of light slaps to his cheek. His entire body felt heavy and unmoving, his mind was a blur, and there was a strange metallic taste in his mouth. As his eyes darted to and fro, he saw three shadows that slowly resolved themselves into silhouettes of people. The largest one – or the closest one, he figured out – seemed to be wearing spectacles.

'It worked, boss; he's awake,' the man in the right of his field of vision said. He felt a weight in his chest and realised it was the man's head.

'Heartbeat and breathing are normal too.'

'Tough boy, isn't he?' The man on the left, whose hair seemed to be slicked back, said. 'Are you sure he's the one, boss?'

'Who else could it be?' The last man asked, his voice an authoritative baritone. 'We're sure he killed that dark elf.' Marcus turned his eyes towards the man and saw a tall, powerfully built silhouette with a large sword. His eyes widened. _No, no, it's not him_ , he thought. _Too alive_.

And when he saw the sword and his mind started clearing up, he recognised who this is: Vault, leader and general of the Black Dogs.

Vault reached a hand out to help him up.

'Welcome back to the land of the living, son. One hell of a job you did here.'

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

'Miria reports that her archers are in position,' Theresa said. 'Flora's and Ophelia's companies are ready as well. I must ask, though, are you sure about this?'

Alicia looked at her second. 'More certain than I have ever been,' she replied. 'The main force of the enemy will come through here.'

Princess Alicia of Feoh and Theresa, her second-in-command, sat on horseback in the front of their host. Above her, hidden in crags and behind large boulders in the mountains, were picked archers of the Feoh Militia, natives to the region and familiar with the mountain paths. Behind them, in the shadow of the snow-capped Crown of the Goddess and its smaller sister-mountains, were 400 mounted knights of the Holy Iris Order, ready and eager to serve their princess, with their squires and men-at-arms alongside them.

Before them was Martyr's Pass, a barren and foreboding wasteland of rock and shadow, a long, narrow pass that formed a route, the largest one through the Great Shield Mountains, between the Kingdom of Feoh and the civilised lands and Cursed Garan. For a hundred years, countless battles have been fought there between valiant men and women and the tides of demonkind that dared pass into Feoh, Shield of the Seven Shields, closest of the kingdoms to the Dark Queen's realm.

Alicia and her Lady Maia of Ansur were tasked with defending Ur from the coming demon horde initially estimated to be 30,000-strong, though newer reports vary from a daunting 40,000, an intimidating 64,000, or even an outrageous 80,000. At first, they were expecting the Dark Queen's forces to take a fortnight to reach the Shield Mountains. However, new reports show that the demons were further in their advance than expected, and are making unnaturally good time, especially of a horde their size. Alicia proposed to lead out some of their forces to harass and slow down the great horde at the pass to buy their reinforcements time. Maia agreed and sent urgent messages to the other cities for reinforcement.

 _And maybe_ , Alicia thought, _I can lure the demons to Feoh instead, to spare Prim the horrors of a siege._ Indeed, she already held back a portion of her Iris Knights and militia forces in Feoh for that purpose.

'We've heard the scouts' report,' Theresa said. 'The demons are currently on the paths of Mount Darrian, are they not?'

'Indeed they are,' Alicia said. 'Which leaves them with three options: the Gauntlet, Serpent's pass, or here. Both the Gauntlet and Serpent's pass are too narrow for a horde their size, and the Gauntlet was blocked by a landslide in their last attempted assault. As for Serpent's Pass, they will avoid it unless they want to suffer the humiliation their brethren did under my Uncle Valerian twenty years ago. It is most likely that they will take this pass and stick close to the mountains to avoid our attention before attacking Ur.'

Theresa nodded. Indeed, the late King of Ur, Valerian Friorire, had indeed defeated a mighty horde 22,000-strong with fewer than 500 men using clever ambushes and good use of the terrain, and he had established a series of outposts and beacons with a permanent garrison to further dissuade demonic incursions into his territory. And before he died, he contracted the Black Dogs to send their soldiers to man a minor fort known as the Iron Gate to watch the entrance to the pass, further strengthening their position.

'What if the Dark Queen attempts to unseal the Gauntlet?' Theresa asked.

'I thought of that as well,' Alicia replied, 'but our scouts' reports show that the demons are heading east towards the Dark Queen's Claw instead of south. They are ignoring the Gauntlet. And if this is some feint and they are indeed going for the longer and more difficult crossing through the Gauntlet, Maia says reinforcements are arriving in Ur daily.'

A squire rode up to the commanders and gave a note to Theresa, who read it with narrowed eyes.

'Word from Galatea, my lady,' she reported. 'The mercenary contingents are in position behind the Pass. She adds Lady Maia told her to send you word that all is quiet in Ur. Her scouts report no activity in the Serpent's pass.'

'I see,' Alicia said. 'Then we are all set. Send word to our sisters, Theresa. Tell them this: the enemy has an overwhelming advantage of numbers over us. Our objective is to slow them, not to stop them here. There will be no foolish heroics-'

A flash in a distant cliff face caught Alicia's eye. It was followed by another flash, and another, and another.

'That's the signal,' Alicia said. 'This is it, sisters,' she continued, 'Goddess be with us all.'

The dark shapes of an orcish horde, massive beyond counting, soon appeared from the far side of the pass. In front of them were standards and totems that proclaim their savagery. The thumping of their drums echoed through the pass, causing some of the horses to whinny in fright. As the Iris Knights and their retainers calmed their mounts, Alicia raised his sword, letting its blade catch the sun's light. The blade shone once, twice, three times before Alicia lowered it. She knew that above her, the archers were drawing their bows and taking aim.

Moments later, more flashes of light shone from the mountain, letting Alicia know of the demons' position. She looked at the horde and replied with a signal of her own.

As one, the archers opened fire. Arrows sang across the pass, descending with great speed onto the demons. However, they did not seem to do much against the orcs. The archers did not even see if they killed anything. Alicia signalled them again, and they once again drew and took aim, and at another signal, they loosed another volley. Again, nothing seemed to happen. Nothing also happened in the third volley.

In the fourth volley, though, it seemed as if the entire front of the horde vanished.

'Did- did you see that, my lady?' Theresa asked, turning to her commander.

Alicia remained silent and gave a different signal, ordering the archers to fire at will.

A continuous rain of arrows fell upon the demons, most of them doing absolutely nothing. Alicia ordered another volley, which also seemed to erase entire sections of the horde without leaving behind any bodies. She then understood what was going on and ordered the archers to cease firing.

' _That witch_ ,' Alicia hissed. She turned to Theresa. 'We're being deceived,' she ordered, lowering her visor. 'Signal the charge.'

Theresa had no time to question her commander's order, for Alicia sheathed her sword, couched her lance, and urged her horse forward. She raised the standard and blew her trumpet, and the Holy Iris Knights sped forward to accompany their commander.

What followed was not foolishly heroic attack worthy of poem and ballad or a clash of lance on demon-flesh. Instead, the Iris Knights harmlessly passed through the orcs, who kept marching as if they were not there.

'Dark elven trickery!' one of the knights exclaimed. A bolt of fire streaked towards her, missing her right arm by a hair but causing her vambrance to become red-hot. She screamed in pain and attempted to pry off the heated armour. As other knights tried to assist their sister, Alicia saw the elf that fired the bolt and urged her horse forward, killing the witch with her lance as before she could react. All the illusionary orcs around the knights disappeared. As Alicia gathered her knights for another charge, all the false demons also vanished into thin air, the dark elf witches sustaining the illusion deciding to fall back.

As the Iris Knights fell back, Theresa made her way to Alicia, who was quietly riding in the rear of the formation. Theresa knew her commander was gritting her teeth in anger underneath her helmet.

'The Dark Queen never intended to attack Ur in the first place,' Alicia said through gritted teeth. 'She just wanted us to send all our forces here. _She's played us all for fools_.' She turned to Theresa. 'Once we return to camp, send a message to Lady Claudia and Her Holiness. In fact, send a message to all the other cities. Warn them of this treachery.'

'Yes, my lady.'

However, Alicia did not need to send the message, for another messenger, ragged and wounded, was waiting for her, bearing a grim message: Ken was under attack.

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

 **Well, I don't know if this makes sense. Hopefully, it does. The word _Orochites_ , which might be unfamiliar to some of you, is what the orcs are called in those inscriptions in the 6th edition Tomb Kings Army Book. The goblins are called _Goblinites_ , the dwarfs are _Kazadites_ , the Tileans are _Tilites_ , and the Bretonnians and/or the Norscans are people of unknown tribes who wear iron.**

 **By the way, the MangaGamer page for _Kuroinu_ called Olga by the n-word: necromancer. Is she suggested to be a necromancer in the game or the anime? I'm pretty sure she doesn't raise an army of skeletons to defend her from evil rapists or anything, but is there at least a suggestion in the narration or something that she can do necromancer-y things? I'm asking for a mummified friend.**

 **Snoogenz – It's not the chariot, unfortunately. But Settra may have another ride. After all, it's unbecoming of a king to walk everywhere, right?**

 **Ronmr – And Eostia will see more of him soon, yes-yes.**

 **Lorenzo98 – You're right, it is the Crown. That khopesh isn't the Blessed Blade of Ptra, though, because that seems to have been wrecked in that fight against Nagash. Or at least, Settra wasn't carrying it in the _Lord of the End Times_ novel for some reason. It's just one of the regular oversized khopeshes the Tomb Kings are pictured to carry. Or if I somehow messed up the size because I didn't stare at that plastic Tomb King long enough, maybe Settra took it from an Ushabti's detached arm or something. And yes, I make use of Loremaster of Sotek's videos when the books decide to be vague on something.**

 **SomeGuyOverHere – I take that 'show, don't tell' rule somewhat seriously, you see. Instead of telling you that the war against Olga is bloody and is almost finished, I'd rather show the war ending myself. As for the slow burn for Settra, it's because one problem I saw in many _Kuroinu_ fix fics where the main character is overpowered is the question of why the character just doesn't kill the Black Dogs in the Black Fortress and be done with them immediately. My band-aid solution is that Settra really doesn't care about the entire war for now and just wants his hat back.**

 **Emperor Palps – Unlimited power?**

 **Terence – I'm glad to see another Nehekharan of culture here.**

 **Danteinfernus – None shinier.**

 **Me – You and me both (me and me?); I've been questioning my execution of this thing since before I uploaded it. As for Settra's decision to spare the little mortal man, if megalomaniacs like one thing more than praising themselves, it's having others do the job for them. Bonus points if said praising is sincere. And for more Nehekharan units, I most likely won't do anything like teleporting all the Hawk Legions of Settra into the story or something, but I am planning on at least one other unit. I don't think constructing a Necrosphinx might be a good idea since those things cause famines and plagues and death wherever they're built (and Settra only reactivated them because the orcs were threatening Khemri and it's not like Nehekhara could get any deader by that point). And as for the Shield Princesses, it's probably going to be a combination of condescension and/or outright contempt unless they clean up their act. And woe betide anyone suggesting that Settra would _serve_ them… With Celestine, though, Settra provides this quote from his _Total War_ appearance: 'Do not mention the gods before Settra. They bow to _ME_!' And Olga's fate depends on whether she's a necromancer or not.**

 **Subzero the Hunter – Those were rival kings and uppity priests of the gods Settra beat up (sometimes with his bare hands). To get the gods to like him, all Settra needed to do was to rebuild their temples and restore their ceremonies after centuries of neglect. And then he sacrificed his children to gain the gods' eternal favour and cleanse his kingdom of plague.**

 **Guest – I can't speak for any of the others, but in my case, it's because I got stuck in traffic in the back of a bus in the middle of a thunderstorm and ran out of things to think about. Maybe the entire traffic system really sucks and needs to be overhauled?**

 **Lazyguy90 – Considering what happened to Nehekhara when Settra ruled it, it's probably for the best.**

 **And that's all I have for now. Up next, tune in to see if I really would write that battle in Ken, or if I could get away with some kind of cop-out. These big, set-piece battles can be pretty tiresome to read about.**


	6. Interlude: The Minds of Monarchs I

**First of all, I'd like to apologise for leaving this story sleeping in its sarcophagus for far longer than it should have. Life is a cruel, cruel mistress that bricks your computer and dumps all of the work on you. And for some reason, I seem to be more able to think about this story while trapped in a shoebox of an apartment instead of a proper house. This new environment did furnish me with some ideas, but they're for that _Total War_ crossover featuring the Byzantine Empire that I thought of in that bus before finally settling on this story.**

 **But enough whinging about my life. I had to cut this 'little' interlude in half because I simply couldn't get inside Vault's head, and I thought Settra's section would be better placed in some other part of the story. Maybe. I'm starting to have my doubts again, so I'll just post this story before I change my mind again.**

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

Interlude  
The Minds of Monarchs I: The Queen and the Goddess

' _As lofty as the clouds yet deep as the seas. As firm as the mountains yet changeable as the wind. As gentle as a river yet fierce as fire. A master of men and a slave to his throne. Who may know the mind of a king?'_

– _excerpted fro_ _m_ Proverbs of Old Eostia _by M. Koelber_

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

As the cool of the night came over the wasteland of Garan, the Dark Queen's mind took to idle thought.

With a goblet of wine on one hand and the other on the staff rested across her lap, Olga Discordia sat on an ironwood chair outside her royal tent, watching the outside world. To her disappointment, a cloud covered the moon and much of the stars. She liked looking at the stars, especially when she found herself unable to sleep. It reminded her of gentler, more innocent times, when her Black Fortress still had the warmth of home, and when she and her young ward sat on a terrace on the fortress's upper levels and looked at the stars.

'Look there, Chloe,' she said, pointing to the north. 'That cluster over there. Can you tell what that is?'

Chloe followed Olga's finger and squinted. The shadow of a smile crept up in Olga's face as she saw Chloe frown hard in thought.

'I… It's… I can't tell, my lady,' the girl finally said after a few minutes and looked down at her knees, brow furrowed and lips slightly pursed. 'I'm sorry.'

Olga smiled. 'It is fine, dear one,' she said. 'That is the Sword Maiden.' She pointed towards the constellation again. 'Look, see? There is her hair, flowing freely in the wind. There is the buckle of her belt. There and there are the Red Sisters, her sword and dagger. And if you look closely, you can see she is in the middle of a deadly dance. She is strong and beautiful, a true legend amongst our people.'

She looked back at Chloe, who gazed up in wide-eyed wonder.

'Strong and beautiful,' the girl whispered. She then turned to her. 'Like you, my lady?'

Olga smiled again and shook her head.

'No, Chloe. Like you.'

Olga saw Chloe look at her shock, brows furrowed and head shaking, her mouth trying to form the beginnings of words. She saw tears beginning to form in the corners of the child's eyes. _Any other girl her age would have at least smiled,_ Olga thought. _Those_ _humans… beasts, every single one._

Olga stood from her seat and placed Chloe in a warm embrace before she can utter a word.

'Hush now, my dear,' she said, patting the girl's head. 'I truly mean my words. You are strong and beautiful. And you will grow stronger and more beautiful than anyone else. Believe me.'

The girl seemed frozen in place for a few moments, but Olga then felt her return the hug.

The beating of drums forced Olga back to the present.

Olga sipped her wine and looked at the view that lay beyond the hill the Dark Elves encamped in. Before her was the vast vista of the Great Wasteland at night, the blackness lit by the nonsensical constellations formed by the cook-fires of hundreds of demon camps. The fires glowed brighter as the demons threw more fuel in them, and the beating of the drums gained some semblance of rhythm. Olga could hear other sounds between the beats: the harsh, guttural chanting of demonkind.

'So the beasts hold another dance,' Olga whispered, frowning at her wine. _How many more of these must we endure_?

Olga took another sip to calm herself, and she forced her mind away from whatever debauched festivities the beasts held.

For the past ten months, demonic warbands have crossed the Shield Mountains to raid the border forts and towns north of the fortress-cities of Feoh, Ur, the two fortresses closest and more accessible from Garan. Occasionally, some warbands would cross the Eastern Swamplands to strike close to Rad or even take the longer, more perilous treks to attack Thorn in the east. However, the Broken Lands that separated Garan from the capital of Ken still seemed to remain impassable.

The Seven Shields quickly came to the conclusion that the Dark Queen was testing their defences in preparation for a strike of greater intensity and tried to prepare accordingly. Thanks to their vigilant scouting of the border of Garan, they soon saw a massive horde on its way to through the Shield Mountains to Ur. They acted accordingly and scrambled their forces westward to meet this threat.

 _And there is no doubt_ , Olga thought, _that the Seven Shields will discern the true intent of Daria's forces and send at least some forces to intercept their forces towards Feoh._

But of course, even that feint was a deception. Far from being the head of an overwhelming horde, the dark elf sorceress Daria only had a dozen of her sister sorceresses with her, and their demonic forces were nothing more than a delusion designed to lure the Seven Shields' forces westward and leave Olga's true target vulnerable.

The drums were becoming louder. Olga took another sip of the wine, only to find that she had emptied her goblet. She placed it on one of her chair's armrests, and she gazed at the view before her again. Out there, beyond the plain where the beasts under her thrall grunted and danced in their barbarous celebrations, lay the Broken Lands.

The Broken Lands were the southernmost regions of Garan, the spot where the Dark Queen's domain once met the so-called 'civilised' realms of the Seven Shield Alliance. It was home to quite a few human and halfling settlements once, a wild and untamed frontier land where the southern realms' laws did not reach and the demons often did not care enough to tread upon. However, with the rise of the Dark Queen and the Seven Shield Alliance, the region saw hundreds of battles, hundreds of thousands of deaths, and decades of war and despoilment. The Dark Queen and the Goddess Reborn met there in battle, and the scars of those great clashes still lay fresh upon the land. The desert became utterly lifeless: what oases once existed either dried up or became poisoned, deadly dust storms quickly manifest in an area and last for days or simply vanish without rhyme or reason, craters have turned into giant sand-sinks that can swallow entire companies, and the very air permeated with the curses of the dead. It is said that the spirits of the dead did not rest easy upon those lands, and men have reported seeing fearful sights and horrid nightmares just by wandering too close. Both the Seven Shields and the Dark Queen's demons have launched expeditions into the region. None of them ever left.

South of the Broken Lands were a line of half-manned border forts that lay neglected for the better part of the century. This was the former front line of the war, in the time before the Broken Lands became what they were. Further south was the fertile Plain of Ken, and in the middle of it lay the great fortress-city of Ken, capital of the Seven Shield Alliance.

 _What a gamble fate has led me to undertake_ ,she thought. _In success, at least a few years of borrowed time. In failure, death and worse._

The orcs' drums and chanting were accompanied by other sounds: screams from men, halflings and elves, both male and female, all prisoners of past raids. The men all screamed from pain, for they were thrown into the cook-fires for the demonic feast. Older women were also thrown into the flames, their use to the demons all but spent. The younger women, especially the comelier ones, had the worse fate, Olga knew: as breeders or as pleasure-slaves, to be defiled day after day until their minds and bodies gave out.

Olga helped herself to another goblet of wine as the screaming continued. Whether from pain or pleasure, she did not care enough to think. _After all_ , she thought, _did the humans care enough for my kin when they preyed upon us_?

Chloe's image flashed in Olga's mind again. She quickly suppressed what rage towards the race of men she felt, knowing she had more pressing matters to concern herself with.

The Dark Queen's thoughts turned on her enemies.

The war had been going on for centuries, yet the men, in their arrogance, termed it the 'Hundred-Year War' to hide how they could not resist the tide of demons before the formation of their precious Seven Shield Alliance. With the help of the halflings, and the dark elves' estranged southern cousins with their Goddess Reborn, humanity organised themselves and raised seven mighty fortress-cities in each of their kingdoms to rival her own Black Fortress and provide shelter for their people. When their knights and common soldiery proved insufficient to match the demons' numbers, their petty kings and nobles took to hiring mercenaries to bolster their forces.

And on dragged the war, with the demons launching their raids out of lust and avarice and the Seven Shields desperately trying to hold them back. For her part, Olga simply watched as the demons moved south and only ever acted to keep the status quo and drive the men back from Garan. She secretly hoped the demons and the men would destroy each other. If that happened, her people would finally be safe.

 _But the gods are ever cruel._

Olga's hopes were never to come true. For reasons still completely beyond her, her power, the only thing that kept the demons overawed and compliant, were beginning to weaken. The decay of her powers is slow, so the simple-minded demons still had not noticed. Having no time to despair over the unfairness of fate, Olga immediately decided on a great gamble: to throw the demons onto a grand southward offensive southward to keep them occupied as she sought a way to recover her magic.

Having little time, Olga acted quickly. She ordered the largest and most aggressive of the orc tribes to migrate southward, and their baser natures did the rest. She then gathered the chieftains of the smaller tribes, the ones which were more ambitious and easiest to control, and ordered them to march with her for a chance to ransack Ken and leave the southern lands finally open to them after a hundred years. Most of the chieftains immediately agreed, but a few complained when they were told they would bypass the Seven Shields by crossing the Broken Lands. A few well-placed bolts of fire immediately brought those chieftains' clans to her thinking.

As her great horde, one almost 100,000 strong, marched south towards the Broken Lands, Olga thought on her other great gamble: a spell to fully undo the magical wards placed on the walls of Ken. To this end, she sent agents alongside some of the demon raids to bring five special orbs of power to key points close to the city. These orbs, which are imbued with a portion of her power, would serve as conduits for her spell. Once the great ritual is done, the magic rendering Ken's walls all but impervious to harm and preventing demons from entering its gates would be undone. Ken may be the mightiest of the seven fortress-cities, but even it will fall.

Olga grimaced after she sipped the last of her wine. 'In an attempt to preserve my powers, I throw my power about without care,' she said. She knew that she would have laughed at the irony were she not this desperate. She felt more power flow from her as the spell she wove to block her actions from the Goddess Reborn's oracular vision activate.

 _Not this time, Celestine,_ she thought.

The drums stopped. The screaming from the demon camps reached their crescendo. Still, Olga could hear the high-pitched, cruel laughter of goblins torturing their victims and all manner of demons engaged in a mindless orgy of rape and violence.

 _What a gamble this is indeed,_ Olga thought. _In success, a short respite. In failure… I would probably be one of those wretches screaming down there._

Olga felt a chill up her spine. She was the Dark Queen, who brought the demons to heel with overwhelming power. If she were ever defeated, she would no doubt be a prized slave of some demon chieftain, destined to give birth to its filthy children for as long as she could. And Chloe…

Olga crushed those dark thoughts as she felt tears form in her eyes. 'Not so,' she whispered, trying to compose herself. 'Not so. Not so.'

The touch of a hand on her shoulder shocked Olga out of her thoughts. She quickly turned her her to see Chloe. The dear child stood tall and confident now, nothing like she her in her childhood. She tied her hair in one side of her head, and a sword and a dagger hung from a belt around her waist. Olga inwardly smiled at how much Chloe resembled the Sword Maiden they saw in the stars all those years ago.

'Is anything the matter, Your Majesty?' Chloe asked, her voice clear as a bell.

Olga smiled. 'Nothing, Chloe,' she said. 'I am simply feeling tired.'

'It is best if you rest, then,' Chloe replied. 'I fear the coming days will only be more difficult.'

'Indeed,' Olga agreed. 'More so for you. You ought to get some rest as well.'

Chloe flinched a bit. She opened her mouth to attempt to form a denial, but Olga pre-empted her.

'No excuses now, child,' the Dark Queen said, a small smile on her lips. 'It will not do for my most trusted bodyguard to suddenly collapse in the field.'

'O-of course, my lady. But I must insist that you rest up first.'

Olga chuckled. 'By your command, your grace,' she said, curtsying before her courtier.

Olga and Chloe walked back to the royal tent, the Dark Queen's mood lifted a bit by the presence of her ward and guardswoman. However, the dark thoughts continued to fester and gnaw at the back of her mind, even as she tried to force them back.

 _Not so. Not so. Not so._

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

Within the depths of an oracular trance, the Goddess Reborn's mind was plagued by troubled thoughts.

Celestine's body stood in still in the middle of a chamber deep within the innermost recesses of the Citadel of Ken, a dark silhouette almost indistinct in the faint blue-hued glow emanating from magical inscriptions on the floor. Potent wards of her own making sealed the chamber from within, preventing any light, sound or scent from distracting her from her vision. Any article of clothing she wore entering the chamber were placed in a neat pile in a corner of the room, and her magic erased even the feeling of the cold stone floor on her feet. Such measures were necessary to release her mind from the concerns of the present, allowing it to plunge deep into the river of time and catch a glimpse of the future.

But the future continued to elude her.

Despite all of the measures she took, Celestine could not truly let go of the concerns of the present. She recited her long-practised calming mantras within her mind to slow her heart and relax her breathing, but even then, she was only barely in control of herself. And as her mind's eye remained unable to see past the impenetrable mists of the present, she felt a cold, unwelcome emotion crawl up her spine.

Fear. _That_ _her powers have degenerated more than she expected_ _._ Fear of inadequacy. _That the coming slaughter cannot be prevented._ Fear of failure. _That she will_ _not be able to answer her charges' prayers for protection_ _._ Fear of the inevitable. _That the King of the Dead now walks in the Land of the Living._

The mists broke, and Celestine found herself staring at the deathly form that ever haunted her nightmares.

 _Settra is here._

The vision came rushing to her like an unstoppable torrent, threatening to overwhelm her. An orb of the deepest red. _Settra slaughtering hordes of demons._ A black tower struck by lightning. _Settra slaughtering demon chieftains and the captains of men alike._ A warrior with broken sword. _Settra slaughtering the Black Dogs._ Blood upon cobblestone. _Settra standing in the square of burning Feoh, its temples and nuns desecrated, the bodies of men and demons broken on the ground._ A dying man cornered by ravenous beasts. _Living soldiers marching under the banner of death._ A white tower struck by lightning.

 _ **Settra is here.**_

Celestine collapsed to her hands and knees, her strength spent. As she heaved and panted in exhaustion, she felt the stone against her bare forearms and knees. She felt drenched in sweat, and her breath became laboured in the stale fug of the sealed chamber. She felt blood stream from her left nostril down to her lip, its metallic scent invading her senses.

 _So this is it_ , she thought. _This is all I can give my people. Centuries of war. Centuries of suffering. All for naught. All_ _for **him** to take_.

Her strength and resolve entirely spent, the Goddess Reborn slumped down on the cold floor and wept. Her sobs echoed within the chamber, but not a sound reached the grounds outside.

Soon, Celestine could do nothing lie on the floor. The closed chamber became almost oven-like in heat. She was coated in a thin film of sweat, but she did not care. She lay completely motionless, staring at the dark ceiling in catatonic silence. Her mind, once filled with cares, fell silent.

Celestine's mind involuntarily turned away from herself and to others. The people she swore to nurture and protect. _The gentle high elves_. _The industrious halflings_. _The courageous men_. All the races that cried out to her when the demons came. _The people of Feoh. Of Ur. Of Geofu. Of Ansur. Of Thorn. Of Rad. Of Ken._ The kingdoms and cities her people built in her name. Then came the faces: her scholars and priesthood, her knights, her soldiers, her townsfolk, her villagers, her Princess Knights, _her children. All of her people. All the people she failed._ The tears started once more.

It was at that point of absolute despair that Celestine's mind was cleared of all but a single, all-consuming desire.

 _I must protect them._

But still, reality, fierce and unyielding, began to creep into her thoughts once more. As she stared at the ceiling, she thought she saw two ghostly blue lights shining like soul-fires from empty eye-sockets.

 _No. There must be a way. We can defeat him. Seal him away. Appease him. Anything, so long as my people survive._

She thought she felt the chill touch of death upon her.

 _Anything._

Celestine's desire then turned to determination, determination turned to focus, and in the midst of searing mind-pain, the vision came once more.

Celestine saw a land of frost and death, of an endless white plain of snow under an endless grey sky. In the distant highlands lay jagged mountains that jutted out like the teeth of some colossal world-beast, and beneath them were thick, dark forests of black, snow-covered pine. She heard the eerie howl of the blizzard wind, and she could feel the eyes of the terrible things that lay within the dark forest leering at her, slavering at the sight of her soul. Celestine suppressed a shudder.

Marching upon the white plain was a sight Celestine thought was completely incongruent to this desolate land. She saw an army of the dead, one vast beyond numbering. She saw column upon column of skeletal soldiers – swordsmen and spearmen and archers – marching silently in their serried ranks beneath banners that bore ancient sigils of death, their spears and swords glittering in the pale, wan sun. Alongside them were great war-statues that had the bodies of men and heads of the hawk or of the wolf, or of a fearsome wide-snouted, fang-mouthed beast of exotic lands. Behind them, moving in stately procession, were gilded chariots pulled by pairs of skeletal warhorses. She saw dead noblemen, generals, and kings, proud and regal even in death, standing tall in their chariots, their gold-topped personal standards waving in the wind. Great four-footed stone beasts with flaming mouths and platforms that held skeletal riders strode in the midst of the chariots, accompanied by bizarre chimeric creations that combined the head and torso of a gigantic man, the lower body of a lion, the stinging tail of a scorpion, highly stylised wings and cruel-looking sickle-arms. She saw war machines that resembled the catapults and mangonels of the halflings, but twisted and shaped to resemble grim, skeletal forms. She saw the wizened forms of the priesthood of the dead chanting long, monotonous incantations in praise of long-forgotten gods. She saw the decayed forms of the flocks of great, dead vultures that circled the dead host. She saw the Army of Settra.

And there, in the middle of the army, riding a flaming chariot pulled by four dead steeds and wielding a white-hot blade that shone like the sun, was Settra the Imperishable. He drove his soldiers on, onwards to the dark forest, paying no heed of whatever hid within. The army ceased its march in a crossroads, with the forest on either side of them and to their front, and a platform-like ridge in front of their right wing. The nameless things that hid in the forest fell silent, and even the blizzard ceased howling as the king spoke.

' **Today, we dispatch these faithless barbarians, these... _petty thieves_ , in tribute to Djaf, the God of War and Death!'**Settra roared. He looked skyward, as if speaking to the god he spoke of directly. **'He will feast as the jackal does and grow fat on their souls!'**

Settra then looked straight at the forest, as if challenging whatever ambushers lay within to strike him down. **'For who dares stand before Settra in defiance of his will?'** he declared. **'I am the King of Kings, the Imperishable, and I will see my crown returned!'**

The skeleton soldiery banged their weapons on their shields in salute.

With an unspoken command, Settra willed his infantry forward.

As the army of the dead advanced, Celestine saw what was possibly the most horrific creatures she had ever seen, either as a true goddess or as one born in elven flesh.

With relentless baying from a misshapen throats came the hounds: fierce, slavering, overly muscular caricatures of the noble wolf, creatures of fang and claw and horn and eyes bright with infernal fire. These abominations ran erupted out of the woods and ran towards the skeletal shield walls with single-minded abandon, not slowing down even when subjected to massed arrow fire. What wonder Celestine may have had to see magically-blessed arrows twisting and moving in mid-air to hit the beasts right between the eyes was lost as some of the creatures reached the skeletal lines, breaking bronze and crushing bone before they finally expired.

And then came even greater horrors for the Goddess Reborn.

From the forests charged tens of thousands of howling two-legged beasts clad in fur, leather or iron plate. These creatures raised their large, fearful axes and swords as they screamed obscenities in languages too foul for her vision to fully comprehend. Again the arrows rained upon them, but the creatures pushed on. A few of them simply tore the arrows from their skulls and charged on. Others fell and died, laughing madly all the while. Others, slowed down by the arrow fire, were mercilessly cut down by the ones that followed them out of sheer blood-madness. Celestine thought these were demons, for they were the only ones she knew were capable of such savagery. To her great shock, the creatures were men.

The demon-men crashed into the skeletal lines whilst they were still reforming from the hounds' attack. Rank upon rank of skeletons were torn apart my the impetus of the charge. The brutes hacked and slashed, cursed steel clashing with ancient bronze, and the snows became littered by the blood of the living and the bones of the dead.

While the men had managed to close in on them, the dead were totally beyond such concerns as fear. The charge of the hounds had failed to break them, and they retained their cold, mechanical discipline in the face of the madmen. However, the battle was not going well for them. Where the iron-clad brutes were, the dead were unable to withstand the living. Only the direct intervention of the more ornately-clad skeletons and the war statuary of the dead prevented their lines from collapsing. Celestine almost felt a pang of pity, but for whom? For the dead denied their rest, or for the living, so led astray?

There was no time to think. Then came the baleful fire.

Work-gangs of men rolled four strange devices from the forest and onto the ridge facing the right wing of the dead. The devices resembled great cylinders on two wheels with open fanged maws. As the work-gangs hurled what for all the world seemed like corpses down the devices' maws, they turned from inert black to an angry orange-red, with runes offensive to the natural order appearing upon their length. The image of the devices seemed to distort, as if the air itself refused to touch them. Celestine instinctively tried to shield her eyes, but she found herself unable to do so.

Their voice was thunder, and their breath was death.

Gouts of unnatural fire flared out of the demon-cylinders, carving great trenches of death upon the skeletal lines. Scores of skeletons and war-statuary were pulverised by one shot. As the devices smoked and cooled, The debased work-gangs began to work again, heaping more corpses upon their maws.

It was then that Settra sprung his trap.

Geysers of snow erupted on the ridge and the massed formations of men and on the ridge. From them emerged war statues in the form of the scorpions the dark elves of Garan so favoured, magnified to gigantic scale. These great scorpions struck at the men with pincer and stinger tail, and none but the mightiest could stand before them. A few of the scorpions were torn apart by armoured foes of superhuman strength, only for others to leap in action and avenge their fallen brethren.

On the ridge emerged skull-faced war statues with the arms and upper bodies of men and the lower bodies of serpents. They dismembered the terrified work-gangs with long-handled blades that looked like pale imitations of Settra's own or turned them to pillars of sand with their baleful gazes. A rain of flaming, screaming skulls silenced their infernal devices. The dessicated vultures overhead also descended to join in the slaughter.

And as the men were being killed around them, the seemingly slain skeletons and war statues on the ground began to shake and reform at the command of the dead priests. The men, seemingly euphoric with victory, quickly lost heart and tried to flee. It was their turn to be cut down and slain by bronze blade and blessed arrow.

However, the foes of Settra also had yet another to play. Unholy roars emanated from the dark forests, and from among the trees emerged a massive giant almost as tall as the great pines, accompanied by other lightning-wreathed beasts with the upper bodies of enormous ogres and lower bodies that had four clawed legs and a mighty tail. The giant roared a challenge to the dead as it scooped up a chariot and crushed it. Its tinier companions on the ground took heart at its appearance and began to fight back once more.

The skeletons then opened up their ranks, and from the gaps charged the chariots and the largest of the war-statuary. Settra's flaming chariot rolled at the very tip of the wedge, and charged at the giant head-on. The creature knelt down brought its pine-club down upon the king, but his chariot was too swift. The simple-minded beast only struck where Settra was, not where he was going. The king's chariot ran over and immolated two armoured men that tried to approach him, and the giant finally managed to bring its club down on Settra's head.

Celestine watched in wide-eyed astonishment as Settra stopped the massive club with one hand, his strength equal to the giant's own. With his other hand, the king readied his glowing blade.

 _Strike, Settra, strike!_ Celestine found herself thinking.

The giant tried to use both hands to bring its weapon down, only for its arms to be reduced to a burning stump by Settra's burning blade. Its screams of pain and fear were cut short by the blade biting deep into its gut and burning it from within. In mere moments, smoke poured out of the giant's emptied eye-sockets, ears and open mouth, and its charred form fell in an inglorious heap.

The death of the giant broke what spirit the living still had. Despair had replaced their mad bloodlust, and they fled screaming, only to be ran down by the chariots of the victorious dead. Their defeat was total.

Celestine's vision then took her through five days of cold, methodical slaughter. She saw a great horned warrior clad in black iron plate and armed with a sword that did not seem to belong to the world vainly try to swipe a swarm of black insects, only to be stabbed by a spectral dagger. She saw men weeping as they fled, only to be hunted down by skeletal horsemen Settra hid in the deep woods. She saw burning villages, entire tribes butchered, and blasphemous shrines torn down by the dead. She saw Settra defeating one of the great ogre-beasts in strength slaying it with a swipe of his blade. And at the end of it all, she saw Settra taking an item from the cold hands of one of his slain enemies: a magnificent crown of gold, turqoise, white and scarlet.

The Goddess Reborn's eyes seemed drawn to this crown. Settra placed it on his head, and his army knelt before him. The vision faded into blackness, but the crown remained. She kept staring at its serpent-topped form for several moments before she realised the vision was showing her a different place altogether.

Instead of resting upon Settra's head as it should, the crown was in the hands of a demon, one she recognised very well: an orc chieftain. She looked around and saw exactly where the demon was: the desert of Garan.

It was then that Celestine realised what the vision meant to show her: Settra was searching for his crown.

The Goddess Reborn bolted upright from the chamber floor, her head in a throbbing pain. She paid the pain little heed; she now knew what she must do. She hurriedly wiped her face, put on her clothes, grabbed her golden laurel crown, and bolted from the chamber and through her palace halls as quickly as she could.

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

Claudia sat on her customary seat in the Great Hall and considered the coming battle in Ur when she saw her lady Celestine burst into the room. She gasped, stood in shock when she saw her the form of her goddess: she was barefoot and dishevelled, her clothes in disarray. Her hair was a great mess, her eyes were bloodshot, and she was bleeding from one nostril.

'My lady, are you-' Claudia began.

'I am- I am well... Claudia,' Celestine said as she limped into her seat. Her panting told the Princess of Geofu she was anything but well. 'I have… the visions,' Celestine continued as Claudia helped her to her throne and offered her a goblet of water. 'I saw something.'

Claudia nodded in understanding.

'What would you have me do, my lady?' she asked.

'I have a special mission,' Celestine said after taking a gulp. 'One of the highest importance to us.'

'Ask me anything, Lady Celestine, and it will be done.'

'Not you, Claudia,' Celestine replied, shaking her head. 'I may need you to defend our people.'

The Goddess Reborn took another gulp of water.

'General Vault and his troops two days ago, did they not?' she asked.

'They did,' Claudia answered. 'They have taken the western road to Geofu.'

'Send a messenger on the fastest horse you can find. Tell them to return to Ken with all due haste.'

 **-x-x-x-x-x-x-**

 **And there we go. That was a difficult chapter to write, I'll admit. One thing we've established here is that Celestine doesn't know what a jackal is. And what a crocodile is. And what glaives are. But those aren't problems for us at this point.**

 **Ronmr: I only serve the King of Kings as best as I could.**

 **Lorenzo98: Wait, did you see my first drafts before my computer got bricked? That's actually what the story used to be like, but then I asked myself why Settra didn't just murder Vault when he implied he would be the king and Settra his servant or something. I hurriedly thought up all of these crown shenanigans when I couldn't establish why that is so, and I'm currently trying to get Settra as far away from Vault and the Black Dogs and possible before the declaration of the very creatively-named Sex Empire.**

 **Danteinfernus: So Olga being a necromancer isn't confirmed. I can use that. Or maybe I can't.**

 **Me: That map of the kingdoms was very helpful, though I had to make up geographical features as I went along to try to explain why the war went like it did. It also showed that the Black Fortress is a bit off-centre to the left of the semicircle of the other kingdoms, which makes Feoh a bit closer, but not by much.**

 **thefluffyone93: That's his hat, Mr Vault! He is number one!**

 **Dragonheart51: I imagined it several times. All of them were pretty fun.**

 **Snakeboy33: I'm also planning to depict Settra's search for the crown. I made Eostia a large place, so some things should happen between long marches.**

 **Anonymous: It's just Settra… for now. But then again, it's a big, scary world out there…**

 **Guest: Since Marcus didn't punch back, it wasn't a real 'oraoraoraora'.**

 **ATP: Settra is much greater than a mere warrior-princess, of course. And he has more titles too.**

 **Guest (2): So can I. I've been hearing that for the better part of a year. I just hope I don't disappoint.**

 **ManwithaPlan113: I agree. _Warhammer_ still had a lot going for it, but they just blew it all up. I guess we'll never get that real Army Book Kislev now.**

 **37: Ah, another Nehekharan of culture, I see.**

 **Guest (3): Here you go.**

 **Eugene: Fair criticisms. I certainly didn't depict Settra as feeling fear, if that's how it came across. I wanted to show how little he cared about this battle since he had a more important objective in mind: namely, the crown. He had his still-living chieftain to question and those newcomers would waste his precious time, so he quit the field as he should. As for Settra not appearing enough, I can only blame that to me studying in the _Jaws_ School of Not Showing Your Monster Until Well Into The Story. I will focus on him later on, but I decided to deal with all this messy world-building first.**

 **Mad God 42: The glory of Settra requires more than one mere crossover! Settra demands more stories in his name!**

 **Abrams 1559: I'm not planning that for the moment. Maybe if the plot calls for it.**

 **And I believe that's everything. Next time, we finally get back to the plot. I believe Ken was being attacked or something. I hope I can post it soon. I'll try to posting some time within my lifetime, but if I fail to do that, I already contacted my local Liche Priest with instructions to mummify me with a laptop so I can keep typing away from beyond the grave.**

 **By the way, why yes, that battle _is_ the Crown of Nehekhara quest event from the _Total War_ game. That speech is lifted word-for-word from it. I also added in some details from the Tomb Kings Army Book, such as Settra gathering the combined armies of Nehekhara and the Chaos Lord being killed by Apophas.**


	7. The White City

**And we're back. Very little Settra action this time, I'm afraid. I currently only have a small bag of tricks to play with currently, and I want to save them all for that point one or two chapters after this.**

 **For now, this chapter is just a series of snippets leading up to the Battle of Ken. Also, I should at least try to flesh out some characters to try and convince you that I won't kill them off when it's finally Settra time. I still haven't seen _Kuroinu_ , so I envisioned Ken as some kind of bastard love child of Mont-Saint-Michel and Anor Londo trying to cosplay as Minas Tirith. **

* * *

Chapter IV  
The White City

' _I hate sieges. You're cut off, outnumbered, stuck inside glorified boxes. The demons often outnumber you three to one at the least. You run out of things to throw by the third day, things to eat by the first week. That is, if the walls don't get breached first. The only hope you and the poor bastards you find yourself stuck with have are reinforcements arriving on time – a miracle in itself – or the demons getting more bored than they are horny for the women who may or may not be in your fort. Damn those sieges. But you know what's worse than a siege? The wait before one.'_

– _Old Hark,_ _retired_ _mercenary_

* * *

 _A white gate on a white wall around the White City_ , Marcus thought as he and his fellow Black Dogs stood on the drawbridge to Ken, right outside the Goddess's Gate. He looked at his companions and saw that their eyes were also wandering around the wall, the gate and its battlements, probably as anxious as he was.

After their victory in Asper, Vault's company encamped outside the village for a night to catch their breaths and tend to the wounded, especially to the neophytes who managed to survive the battle. They marched bright and early the next morning and linked up with yet another thousand-strong Black Dog company that was originally heading to Geofu, effectively doubling their force.

Miraculously, Gav was one of the survivors of Asper. _Too stubborn to die_ , Marcus thought. Apparently, he and their file-member Bron rallied some of the surviving neophytes after the death of Sergeant Fulk and resisted the demons in the village itself, house by house and room by room, until reinforcements arrived in the morning. The villagers heeded Captain Julius's order and ran away, the Black Dogs managing to buy them time with their lives. And apparently, Gav was the one who stepped up to provide leadership to the neophytes that retreated, keeping the group together even as their numbers dwindled.

Marcus inwardly chuckled. He almost couldn't believe how his childhood friend, the one with a childish crush on his mother and always lost to him in games and sparring matches, could rally a band of terrified boys and keep them fighting against thousands of bloodthirsty demons. _I guess the gods really are unfair_ , he thought with a wry smile.

The thought of gods brought Marcus's mind to another memory from the battle.

To a golden apparition that cut down scores of orcs and goblins with his sickle-sword and prodigious strength. A being luminous and magnificent but at the same time deathly and horrifying. The King of the Dead. Settra's words again rang inside Marcus's head.

 _I have seen in you the shadow of greatness._

 _Did he really?_ Marcus thought to himself as he recalled the events after the battle. Vault found him close to the body of the dark elf and the large orc drummer, and he correctly concluded that he had been the one who killed them. The general incorrectly thought that the elf was leading the demons, and that killing her and the chief drummer led to a power struggle among the demons that caused their cohesion to collapse. This also conveniently explained the corpses of demons that lined the battlefield, some of them seemingly torn apart with great force. It was the simpler, more reasonable interpretation of what happened there. Much of the credit for the victory, thus, fell on the young warrior, which left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Naturally, Vault did not believe Marcus when he suggested that another mankilled all of those demons, especially when the boy started describing what this other man looked like. The fact that he was still half-conscious due to the lingering effects of the dark elf's envenomed sword despite taking a healing draught did not help his case. Marcus shook his head as he thought back on the memory.

A deep groaning sound signalled the opening of the great white doors of the Goddess's Gate and the iron portcullis behind it. Brought back to the present by the sound, Marcus felt his heart race as the first close-up glimpses of the capital and seat of power of the Seven Shields emerged before him.

'Here she is, boys,' one of the older Black Dogs told the neophytes. 'The greatest sight you'll ever see.'

Marcus had heard stories of the fabled White City from his father's old stories. When he grew up, he thought those descriptions too fantastical, perhaps embellished by the old man for his five-year-old son.

As he gazed upon the city and marched upon its streets, he realised he was wrong.

The White City truly lived up to its moniker, for the colour white dominated the entire scene: white houses, white shops, white squares, white theatres, white monuments, white fountains, arranged in well-ordered quarters sloping up the old Elven Hill and terminating in yet another white wall, which Marcus knew was the Middle Ring. Beyond that wall loomed even larger structures of white marble, and beyond it, behind the mighty bastion that is the Inner Ring, were the alabaster spires and towers of the White Palace. _I wonder how Father felt when he first went here_ _,_ Marcus thought. He looked around at his comrades. The Black Dogs, some with damaged armour, bandaged wounds, tattered clothing and the dust and mud of the march, looked positively out of place.

As the Black Dogs marched through the quiet steets of Ken, Marcus found one great difference from his father's stories. _The city seems too white_ , he thought _._ Besides the verdant green of some of the trees, grass and shrubbery as well as the many vivid colours of the flower gardens, everything in Ken seemed to be a pure white. Even the trees that lined some of the widest boulevards were pure white in trunk and leaf, as if all the vitality had been drained from them. Gone were the colourful stalls and banners his father once told him about. This made the city seem more eerie than welcoming to the Black Dogs.

The other aspect that gave the city a foreboding atmosphere was the almost complete lack of people.

Instead of the large crowds of people mingling and doing business all around them, the Black Dogs were met with eerie silence, even as midday approached. Most of the few men they saw were of the city guard on patrol, spears and shields at the ready. Some others seemed to be anxious to get inside a building, only sparing the marching mercenaries a passing glance or a hurried gesture of greeting. Marcus saw only a handful of women nervously peering out of half-opened windows and no children at all. The sense of desertion was almost overwhelming.

The seeming desolation of the town, along with the closed gate, did not bode well with Marcus.

'Is this city always this dead?' Gav asked from beside Marcus, giving voice to the thoughts of quite a few of the mercenaries.

'Not always,' one of the veterans answered. 'Only in some cases.'

'Like what, like when it's about to be attack-' Gav suddenly stopped himself, feeling the eyes on all of the Black Dogs within earshot of him. _His mouth was always faster than his brain_ , Marcus thought, shaking his head.

'Shit. We _are_ about to be attacked, aren't we?' Gav whispered to Marcus.

'The city's likely about the come under siege,' General Vault suddenly said as his horse trotted beside the two. He had ridden from the head of the formation to check up on his men. 'Those demons in that village were certainly some kind of flanking force the Dark Queen would call in while we're distracted by some other horde she brought.'

'And those demons are all dead or scampering back to the Wasteland,' Gav said, finishing the thought. 'So we just foiled the Dark Queen's plans before she can attack us?'

'You think that's why the Goddess called you so back so suddenly, General?' Marcus asked.

Vault simply shrugged. 'Who knows,' he said as he turned his eyes back forward. 'The visions of the Goddess are too complex for our like, her priests often say.' He chuckled before turning to his men. 'But what I do know for certain is this,' he said with a grin, raising his voice so the whole company can hear. 'If the demons do come for us, you boys will make me proud.'

The Black Dogs laughed and cheered in assent, their jubilation echoing through the near-empty streets.

They marched for about less than half an hour more before they reached the fortified Mercenary Quarter, where most of the company were left to rest and prepare for a possible fight ahead. Vault left their barracks after a short break, riding his coal-black destrier up the near-abandoned streets of Ken to the White Palace. It was midday.

* * *

The Black Dogs' walled headquarters in the centre of the Mercenary Quarter dwarfed the homes of other, lesser mercenary companies like a lord's manor-house a peasant village. Where the other companies were lucky to have one barracks to themselves, the Black Dogs had an entire compound that contained a barracks, a feasting hall, a smithy, a hospital, granaries, stables, and even a small library ran by the Black Dogs' mage Kin. _A veritable fortress_ , Marcus thought when he first saw its facade, its down-to-earth stone grey making it stand out from the almost oppressive whiteness of the rest of the city. These interconnected buildings surrounded a large training ground, riding area and target range, which General Vault graciously allowed the smallest companies to use to train their own forces.

Having formally signed their contracts with the Black Dogs, Marcus, Gav, Bron and other survivors of the battle of Asper sat one a long table at the feasting hall in one corner of the hall for a belated luncheon. A few of the more senior Dogs, those that did not have their own duties at the moment, sat in some of the other tables according to their files.

All eight of the newly-minted Black Dogs sat in one table. Of the twelve that made it out of Asper, three were too wounded to continue as mercenaries while one died on the way. Gav sat at the head of the table, the rest of the men seeming to defer to him after the leadership he showed in the battle. To his right sat Bron, who served as his second. Marcus sat at his left.

The atmosphere in the hall was unnaturally tense as the Black Dogs ate in silence, their earlier adulation all but forgotten in as the reality of a possible new siege sank in. The food was not helping either.

'Plain gruel, a strip of meat as hard as hardtack and watered-down beer,' Bron groused, frowning at his meal. 'And here I thought we'd get some decent food once we got to Ken.'

'I guess they really are expecting a siege,' Marcus. 'And a long one, at that.'

'I can see that,' Bron replied. 'I just…' he scratched his head. 'I just expected more, you know?'

A few others nodded in commiseration. Some other Black Dogs in the other tables seemed to be grumbling as well.

'We get what we get,' Gav said. 'If we want better food, we'd just have to win this next siege.' He raised his mug to propose a toast.

'I know this drink's too poor for a toast, but we may not get another chance,' he said. 'To Captain Julius. To the lost Dogs of Asper.'

'To the Dogs of Asper,' the rest of the men at the table echoed as they clinked mugs together. Every man took one gulp of the beer – which Marcus noted was almost entirely tasteless – before beginning their meal.

The Black Dogs ate their tasteless fare in awkward silence. Some remembered the faces of lost brothers and attempted to block them out. Some, like Bron, let their distaste of the food override their grief. Most of the men at the table, however, cast furtive but plainly obvious stares at Marcus, who kept his head down ate hurriedly, trying his best not to notice. They all knew what each man did in Asper and how each of them survived. Marcus, however, was a source of wonderment to all of them. They all thought him dead in the rout in the dead of night, but when the morning came, there he was, wounded but alive, with no less than General Vault and Captain Hicks to sing his praises. He killed the dark elf who led the horde, they said. He got the demons to fight each other.

They all heard the rumours, of course, of Marcus apparently seeing a ghost in the middle of battle and claiming it alone killed all of those demons and carried off the real chieftain. None of them believed it. After all, he told that just as he was taken from the brink of death. Still, he seemed reluctant to tell the real tale, especially after his half-conscious ranting. Who wouldn't be? They all respected him too much to ask outright.

All of them save one.

'So Marcus, my friend,' Gav said with his usual flippant tone, tapping his friend on the shoulder. 'I believe you owe us all an explanation.' Feeling that they were about to get an answer to the question they all wanted to ask, everyone at the table stopped pretending not to care and stared at Marcus.

Marcus visibly flinched as if slapped in the face, but Gav either didn't notice or didn't care.

'I mean, I always knew you were a dab hand with a sword,' he continued, 'but actually killing one of the Dark Queen's elf agents. How'd you do it?'

Marcus sighed with relief and took one last scoop of his gruel. _Not the question I was afraid of_ , he thought.

'I stabbed it and it died,' he said with shrug before taking a swig of beer.

Chuckles emerged from everyone at the table, eliciting some stares from the surrounding Black Dogs for a brief moment.

'Oh come on, old friend, old pal, old chum?' Gav said. 'I _know_ there's a longer story than that.'

Marcus laughed at his own joke, finding a bit of confidence at it.

'Fine,' he sighed. 'I didn't know what I was fighting at first. It snuck up on me. When I saw her, some form of dark elven magic made her look like a really big orc. She lunged at me, broke my shield, lunged at me again and again, and then she just kept attacking with these angry strikes that it was as if she saw me spit on the Dark Queen's face.'

That last comment elicited more chuckles from the group.

'Wait,' one of the Black Dogs, Karl, said. 'The elf looked like a big orc, and she still managed to sneak up on you? How'd that happen?'

'She _looked_ like an orc, but she didn't act like one,' Marcus replied. 'I barely heard anything when she approached.'

He then made a diagonal line across his torso, tracing the preliminary repair work done on his gambeson. The rest followed with their eyes.

'She managed to get me here,' he said. The others nodded, some noting the faded traces of blood around the slash. 'She would have actually killed me with her next lunge, but she missed because my knees gave at the best possible time.' He shrugged. 'I guess I was lucky her envenomed blade was so effective.'

'So how... _did_ you kill her?' Bron asked as he struggled to tear off a bite-sized bit from the piece of meat he still had.

'Well, I thought I really didn't want to die,' Marcus said. 'So I gathered what strength I still had and just kept fighting. What happened next was a blur to me, but by the time everything was clear again, the elf was dead on the ground, and I was just about to black out.'

'Lucky,' one of the Black Dogs said.

' _Very_ lucky,' Marcus replied, nodding in agreement.

'How about that real big orc you killed, then?' Gav asked, still interested. Marcus knew these were preludes to the real question.

'Oh, the drummer,' Marcus mused as he took another sip of the beer. 'That was before I fought the dark elf. I was actually easier. I stabbed its foot with my shield, it was shocked, I killed it.' It was Gav's turn to flinch.

'You stabbed it with your shield?' Harold, another one of the Black Dogs, asked.

Gav answered for Marcus.

'One of the tricks he thought up when we were training in our village,' he said. 'The bottom end of our shields are pointed, yeah?' He drew a V-shape in the air with his finger to try and illustrate. 'He lets the other guy get in close and then lowers his shield onto his foot. He did that to me in sparring once. Hurt like hell, and I had thick boots.'

'The orc was barefoot,' Marcus remarked, 'and I didn't have to hold back since we weren't sparring.' Some of the others nodded in understanding. Bron grinned, thinking he may try and learn that trick.

'But there's still that other thing about Asper,' Harold said, nodding to himself. 'What about that ghost the others said you saw?' That question caught the attention of some of the Dogs on the other tables who were pretending they weren't listening.

 _And here it is,_ Marcus thought. He wanted nothing more than to tell them he was just seeing things, a side-effect of fear and fatigue. Maybe then the rumours would stop. In fact, even he was starting to doubt whether the vision he saw was real.

That is, until the king's voice echoed in his mind again.

 _Do not disappoint me._

 _No,_ the young warrior thought. To deny what really happened at Asper was to dishonour his saviour. That will simply not do, not for a real warrior.

'That's...' he began, hesitant. 'He wasn't a ghost. And I'm sure I wasn't just seeing things. I don't know what he _was_ , but I'm sure of that.'

'And why's that?' Gav asked. For the first time in a very long time, Marcus saw that Gav's face wasn't set in that light-hearted, mischievous half-smile of his. He seemed utterly serious, as if genuinely worried about his friend.

'I saw him kill all those orcs,' Marcus said, his expression completely stern and his voice full of conviction. 'I saw seven of them came at him one time, and he killed them all. He didn't even let them touch him. No ghost can do that.'

'What did this… _thing_ look like, then?' Gav pressed.

'He called himself Settra,' Marcus replied, carefully choosing his words. ' was… _tall._ He was dressed in gold and sparkling gems, like a king, and he had a large curved sword. He looked… dead. Dead for a long time, even. You'd know if you saw him. He… his eyes were two blue fireballs… and he glowed gold in the dark… ness...' He paused in his description and shook his head. _Even I think that sounds too ridiculous to believe._

There was yet another awkward silence at the table as the Black Dogs tried to process what Marcus said. There he was, their hero, and he seemed to be speaking nonsense.

'That…' Bron began, not quite finding the words. 'That sure is… something.' He shook his head.

'W-well, maybe it really wasn't a ghost,' Harold said, trying to lighten the tension. 'Maybe it's some sort of ancient magical guardian of the land, and Marcus woke it up?'

'Or maybe it's something else,' his former file-mate Alfred suggested. 'You've all heard the legends. The gods intervening for his faithful at times. Maybe Marc was just favoured by the god of...' he shrugged. 'The god of war? Maybe death?'

'That won't work,' Karl said as he shook his head. 'I'm sure the twin goddesses of war and death won't appear like that.'

'One of their divine agents, then,' Alfred said. Karl simply nodded.

'All I know is that I saw him, and he saved my life,' Marcus said. 'Honestly, I couldn't care less what he is.' He could already hear the Black Dogs in the other tables snickering.

'And I hope he gets us out of this siege,' Gav said, clapping Marcus in the shoulder again. He stood up and raised his mug for one last toast.

'To Settra.'

* * *

 _An orb. An orb of the deepest red._

The orb, small enough to be held in a man's hand, lay on a cushion atop a table in the Black Dogs' library. It was completely inert then, but just moments before, it was giving off small sparks of power.

Kin, mage of the Black Dogs, gazed at the orb as he scanned pages from a tome on dark elven magic. Much to his frustration, all he had available at the time was a John Mandeville work, which was more theory and anecdote than actual fact. However, it was all he had, for no right-thinking scholar in the Seven Shields save Mandeville would ever try to write a work on the 'cursed' dark elves.

 _Idiots,_ Kin thought. _Idiots the lot of them_.

Kin looked at the orb again. It was the same orb that hung from the waist of the dark elf killed by that young swordsman that seemed to have caught the boss's eye. From what he can tell, that dark elf was no practitioner of the magical arts, but she supposedly managed to cast an illusion upon herself to take the form of an orc chieftain. Surely, the orb had something to do with it.

Kin picked up the orb. It was cold, smooth and reflective, like glass. He flipped the page of the tome and reached the point where Mandeville tried to discuss how the dark elves cast their illusions. He gave the tome a cursory scan before closing it out of frustration. For the umpteenth time this hour, he cursed the narrow-mindedness of the Seven Shield Alliance and its leaders for daring deny him his knowledge.

He put the orb back in its cushion and thought. Perhaps it was an artefact that allowed a mage to cast spells remotely? If so, how does it work? What is it made of? Why was it glowing a while ago? Is it somehow linked to the caster?

'I knew you'd be here,' a voice called out from behind Kin.

'I'm busy, Hicks,' Kin said with a sigh.

'Busy staring at a ball,' The Black Dogs' scout commander countered. He drew his face closer to Kin's ear and dropped his voice to a whisper. 'The boss left you instructions before he left.'

Kin paid his full attention after those words. 'What did he want?' He whispered back.

'Tell our friends we're here in Ken,' Hicks explained, keeping his voice low. 'Tell them Ken must hold, and it must hold firm. Tell them we'll be enacting the next part of the plan after this battle, whether Celestine consents to an expedition into Garan or not.'

'They tell me Queen Olga has something big planned,' Kin said. 'It likely involves the dark elves that joined the raids.'

'Then they should try to foil it,' Hicks replied. 'Barring that, give _us_ a way to stop it. It's about time this war ends.' The scout's easygoing smile turned into a feral grin. 'On our terms.'

* * *

The planning for the coming battle in the great hall of the White Palace was interrupted by a knock on the door. Celestine and Claudia looked from the map of Ken on the great round table and to the oaken doors of the hall.

'Enter,' Claudia ordered. The hall's two Dawn Templar guards opened the doors.

A young Dawn Templar novitiate stepped into the room and knelt before the round table.

'I beg your pardon, my ladies,' he said. 'I bear a message from the Inner Ring. General Vault of the Black Dogs has passed the Inner Gate. He would like to inform you that he will reach the Palace shortly.'

Celestine stood from her throne.

'Thank you, Sebastian,' she said with a smile. The novitiate smarted, surprised the Goddess Reborn knew his name. 'Please tell them and the other lords and commanders to meet us in the first audience chamber.'

'Of course, Your Holiness,' Sebastian said before standing up. He kept his head bowed as he took three steps backward before turning and leaving the hall just as its doors closed.

'Faster than I expected,' Claudia remarked after the novitiate left. 'General Vault could not have brought too many soldiers.'

'His presence is welcome still,' Celestine said. 'He will play a great role in this battle and the ones ahead.'

'Might this battle be the mission you recalled the general two days ago for?' Claudia asked.

Celestine shook her head. 'No. That one is yet to come. And it is possibly far more important than even this coming battle.' She stood up from her seat and made for the door. 'But such matters can wait. Shall we receive the General and our commanders together?'

Claudia stood up and saluted, placing a fist on over her heart and bowing her head. 'Of course, My Lady.'

The Goddess Reborn then walked down the hall and into the audience chamber, her right-hand woman at her customary place three steps behind.

* * *

Ptra's chariot was starting its descent into the western horizon, and the shadows were growing long. The winds, previously howling in fury, suddenly became becalmed, but they were again starting to pick up from the east.

Settra the Imperishable stood triumphantly in the centre of a village square. The corpses of his bestial foes lay in the ground alongside the village's defenders that they slaughtered earlier alongside the old and the infirm. The weaponry of two races – axes, cleavers, clubs, staves, slings, bows, swords, spears, pitchforks and others – littered the ground. The clotting wine-red blood of men and the fresh black blood of beasts freely intermingled in the sands that carried the king to the battle.

The small town that surrounded the village was a picture of ruin. The buildings which were not made of stone – most of the houses and granaries – were destroyed by fire, reduced to ruins from which thick black smoke still emanated. A large hall that was likely an inn had its thatched roof burned off and its walls painted with crude, bestial glyphs using human blood. The two largest structures of the village – the chief's manor house facing the square in Settra's left and a spire-hearing hall of worship in his right – were similarly defaced. The temple's statuary broken down and the mutilated, arrow-ridden corpses of the priest and the village lord nailed to the facade just above the doorway, their beaten faces locked in expressions of absolute torment.

On both sides of the temple were a large collection of makeshift wooden cages. The ones to the left contained the village's surviving men. Many of them were wounded, some bearing wounds severe enough that they may not last the night. All of them were filthy, covered in sweat, soot and sand, and they all seemed utterly exhausted by the battle and their defeat. The cages on the right contained young women, all of them disrobed, all of them nubile. Many of them wore glassy-eyed, open-mouthed expressions of shock while others were openly weeping. While all of them were similarly covered in ash and sand, some bore the taint of the beasts' discharge upon their skins.

Settra paid little heed to this destruction, for his mind was fixed on his purpose. Instead, the king's attention was fixed upon the only surviving beasts on the battlefield. The swine-men's chieftain stood before him at a distance of around two and twenty cubits, clad in a coat of scales that seemed to be sewn together from separate suits and wielding a crude two-handed war hammer. The king and the beast circled the corpse-strewn square, taking the measure of their opponent as they did so.

'Corpse-man!' the beast boomed. 'You kill orcs! You make imps run! You think you strong! You think you win!' It growled and tightened its grip on its weapon. 'You wrong! Gorzak strong! Gorzak strongest! Gorzak kill you! Gorzak drink from your skull!'

Wielding his khopesh two-handed in the middle guard stance, Settra paid little heed to the creature's babbling.

'You have some knowledge of the tongue of men,' the king remarked matter-of-factly, as if ignoring the creature's growing rage. 'Settra has use for you.'

The beast gave a louder snort and gnashed its teeth. It swung its war hammer to present the spiked end towards Settra. Its weapon was visibly shaking, and it stared straight at the king through squinted eyes, its fanged teeth bared in a furious snarl.

The king tightened his grip on his khopesh. Though he was the very image of calm, the fires of rage burned deep within his immortal spirit. This misbegotten creature had dared presume itself Settra's superior in terms of strength, had dared speak the words of men with its bestial mouth, and dared blurt out empty threats against the King of Kings, blessed of the gods. That it sent its minions to defile womenfolk and likely engaged in such degeneracy itself compounded its crimes. Settra wanted little more than to tear the beast limb from limb and show it that there are things worse than mere death. However, he stilled himself and took command of his wrath. He needed the beast alive for the moment, for it is the key to a much greater prize: the Crown of Nehekhara, symbol of the unity of Lost Nehekhara, symbol his rule that causes the gods to rejoice. That such a divine artefact would stay in the hands of lowborn beasts would be a much greater insult to the gods.

As the wind began to strengthen, Settra stopped moving at a relatively clear spot in the shadow of the village inn. He lowered his khopesh and let go of it with his left hand as he stood proud and tall, staring at the swine-man straight in the eyes. With a great bellow, the beast charged at the king with all abandon.

The swine-man swung its war hammer as it ran to clear its path, sending blood, sand and corpses flying like waves broken before the bow of a ship.

The wind then gave the Lord of the Earth its act of due service and blew the debris the beast scattered in its charge back into it. The beast closed its eyes and continued its charge, and it did not see Settra leap to its side and bring his khopesh down on its right arm.

Enchanted bronze controlled by the king's superhuman strength bit deep into the beast's arm, and it was severed right above the elbow. As the beast squealed in surprise and pain, Settra unleashed a mighty blow on the beast's leg with his left fist, breaking bone and twisting the limb in an unnatural direction. The swine-man fell face down to the ground, but Settra was not yet done. He stamped on the beast's other leg at the knee, breaking it as well, and crushed its left arm. The creature gave pathetic squeals as Settra kicked it so that it lay on its back. It opened its pained eyes with great effort to see the king's khopesh aimed at its neck.

'No! No!' the beast grunted. 'No kill!' It then squealed out a few words of its guttural language, possibly begging for its life. Settra raised his khopesh.

'N-n-n-n-no kill! Corpse-man no kill!' the beast stammered desperately. Settra could see tears flow out of its veiny eyes. 'Great Corpse-man! Strong Corpse-man! No kill Gorzak!'

The creature, previously filled with bluster and itching for violence despite the death of its underlings, was reduced to a sobbing, pleading wretch. It held no room in its heart for defiance, pride or any of the virtues that made men great. Such lowly beasts are meant for the lowest dreg-heaps of the Realm of Souls, the king knew. He would have sneered if he still had the faculties for it.

Instead, Settra pointed his khopesh at the swine-man's face.

'Rejoice, _creature_ ,' he said, 'for you find yourself at the mercy of Settra the Imperishable. One of your brethren has told me that you hold some knowledge that I desire. Reveal unto me all that I must know, and I, Settra, vow in my name that mine will not be the hand that brings about your destruction.'

'Yes, y-y-y-yes!' the beast squealed. 'Great S-S-Settra! Gorzak tell!'

'And know that if you fail to give Settra any of the knowledge he requires, you will find a worse fate than mere death.'

'Gorzak tell! Gorzak tell all!'

'Good,' Settra said, again planting his khopesh above the beast's neck. 'I am told that you know the whereabouts of a golden crown, one topped with a serpent and bearing the immortal symbol of the skull.'

'Crown, yes!' the beast said, trembling from the imagined feeling of Settra's khopesh on his throat. 'Pretty crown! Good crown! Zarnarg take! Zarnarg take from cave! No tell where from!'

'My crown is with this… _Zarnarg_ , then?'

'N-no more. Now i-i-in Fortress. G-gave to fool Queen. Really give to new king.'

' _New king_?' Settra asked, lowering the khopesh the fraction of a finger.

'No real king! Just dog!' the swine-man shouted. It again blurted a stream of words from its language. 'Settra true king! Settra only king!'

Settra did not move his khopesh. 'And where is this Fortress?' he asked.

'Garan!' the beast blurted out. 'Great Desert! F-f-f-f-f-far, far north! Stone wall! Big, black tower! Bitch-Queen ruler! Strong magic! No kill! No kill!' the beast finally broke, openly weeping and babbling out broken sentences in the guttural grunts its kind has for a language. Settra knew he could no longer get anything useful out of the wretch.

'Rejoice,' the king said, 'for you have been of use to Settra.' He started walking away, picking up a bloodied lumber axe from a dead man's hand as he did so.

Settra stopped at one of the cages and hacked its door open with one slash. The men inside quivered in fear and stared at the king with wide-eyed terror. Some of them tried to draw away. Settra merely stood at the doorway, gripped the axe by the neck and presented it to the men handle-first.

'There lies the creature that led to the downfall of your village,' he said, pointing at the swine-man with his khopesh. 'It burned down your crops and cottages, it defiled your womenfolk, and it murdered your kinsmen. Let he who is valiant and true administer righteous justice.'

The beast began squealing in the distance and tried to shift its broken limbs in a vain attempt at escape.

'Settra said!' It screamed. 'Settra said no kill!'

'Indeed,' Settra called out. 'Settra vowed in his name that _his_ will not be the hand that brings about your destruction, and indeed, his hands will not execute you. _Theirs_ will.'

The swine-man babbled in its obscene tongue again. Settra no longer paid it any heed.

The men looked at one another with nervous glances before gazing back at Settra, only to cringe in horror and avert their eyes. No one seemed to make a motion for the axe. A few moments passed, and the men stood huddled and frozen on the far side of the cage.

A short, pudgy, dark-haired young man who was clutching a wound to his left side spoke up.

'Y-y-you,' he stammered, keeping his eyes on the ground so as not to see the king's deathly visage. 'You're not one of them.'

'It is the height of foolishness to mistake the Eternal Ruler of Mankind for a beast,' Settra seethed. 'And the king's patience grows thin. But in his mercy, he repeats his offer: let he who is courageous and true administer justice for his slain kinsmen. Or will you have the king slay the beasts for you in contradiction to his vow? _Will you stain the king's honour?_ '

The man gulped and stared at the swine-man. It lay prone, helpless. He again looked at Settra, directly this time, as if trying to find any duplicity in the king's words. The ghost-fires he had for eyes began glowing all the brighter, a sign of his growing wrath. Finally gathering his resolve, the man stepped forward and grasped the axe's handle with trembling hands. Settra stepped aside and pointed his khopesh and the weeping beast again. The man nodded and headed to where the beast was as Settra went to tear off the doors of the cage that contained the village's women.

When he reached the creature, the man once again gulped, tightened his grip on his axe, and tried to still his heart. He looked back towards Settra, who was on his way towards him. The king nodded. The man raised his axe.

With a desperate, wordless cry, the man brought the axe down upon the swine-man's head. Such was the strength he put into his blow that his wound re-opened, and he fell on the ground, clutching it again.

'See now your lord in pain!' Settra called out to the rest of the men. 'The very ground provides the weapons of your vengeance! Will you not claim your victory? _Are none of you men?_ '

Those last words seem to have lit a fire in the rest of the men. They scrambled out of the cage as quickly as they could and grabbed what weapons they could from the ground. The women too stumbled out of their cage and joined in. Some ran, some limped, but none dared stay behind. The survivors of the village set upon the fallen creature, indignation and fury driving their limbs, stabbing at it again and again even after it has long expired, its black blood pooling at their feet.

The first man who followed Settra had finished tearing off a portion of his tunic to bandage his wound. He limped towards the king, who stared straight at him. The man knelt before he thought of doing so.

'W-w-who are you, lord?' he asked, his voice trembling in fearful awe. 'Are you a god?'

The king looked down on the man and saw a faithful servant.

'I am Settra the Imperishable, King of Kings, Blessed Champion of the Gods,' he declared, loud enough for the rest of the surviving villagers. As one, they stopped what they were doing and knelt before Settra. 'That is the name of your salvation.'

Settra looked with some approval at the adulation of these mortals, yet he had little time for them. Not when they have not truly proven themselves worthy, and especially not when he finally knew where his crown was. He turned his back upon them and started marching off.

'W-wait, my lord!' a voice called. It was the same man who took the axe, the first to follow Settra. The king knew the rest of the village would look to this man for leadership. He turned to face the man. 'Where are you going?'

'North.'

* * *

'… And on dragged the day. Ken, the White City, was bracing itself for imminent attack, but she did not know how close her enemies truly were. A demonic host, one larger than any single horde the Seven Shield Alliance had seen, emerged from out of the previously impassable Broken Lands. It swept through the north, splitting up into smaller hordes it spread out through the fertile lands of Ken like a malignant tumour.

Though bruised and battered from their journey, the demon hordes immediately went on the attack, storming half-defended border forts and frontier towns. Some even circled across Ken to strike at the villages around it under cover of darkness in the hopes of denying the great city its all-important food supplies. They subjected the citizens of the realm – men, halflings, elves – to savageries not seen in these lands for the better part of a century.

The better-defended forts, especially the ones defending major roads and facing the Shield Mountains, withstood the initial attack, but found themselves besieged and cut off. Most of the Seven Shields' strength was sent further east to chase a phantom army, and there was little hope for the trapped soldiers.

With a greater intelligence guiding them, the demons especially targeted lines of supply and communication, striking at any straggler who fled and any messenger who may try to alert the rest of the Seven Shields. No herald, no matter how swift his horse, managed to warn the White City of the demons' advance.

The largest portion of the demonic horde, more than 70,000 strong, marched straight for Ken. At its head, standing atop a great ebon chariot pulled by four black terracotta golem-horses of her own creation, was the Dark Queen Olga Discordia, glorious and terrible. Great power radiated from her darkly beautiful form, and her staff crackled with sorcerous red-hued lightning. Her faithful Shadow stood beside her, and her unbending cadre of black-armoured bodyguards surrounded her in their own chariots. She undoubtedly thought that this was to be her final confrontation with the Goddess Reborn, her final victory against her hated foe.

The Battle of Ken, the turning point of the Hundred-Year War, would begin before eventide.'

– excerpted from _The Chronicle of the Hundred-Year War by M. Koelber_

* * *

 **And I'm done with this one. And then I realised that Settra section didn't mention Ken at all, which kind of breaks the theme I was trying to build up. On well. I can adapt. Settra is not bound by my petty literary constraints.**

 **Perseus12: Settra doesn't have an army of the undead right now. All he currently has is a sword, the spells of the Lore of Nehekhara the _Total War_ game has in his skill tree (except maybe one or two spells), enough strength to arm-wrestle a Bloodthirster to a draw, his undying will, and a _mission_.**

 **LittleWhiteMouse: I don't know about Settra not sharing his personal history. It might be funny to write Settra having a heart-to-heart talk. Completely out-of-character and will not be published here, but funny. But maybe Celestine will get a small glimpse of Nehekhara at the height of its power. Maybe it may not even be too late by then. As for what happens to Olga and Chloe… We'll see. Even I'm not completely sure how they can get out of that pickle.**

 **ManwithaPlan113: That it is. This thing has been burning a hole in my brain for far too long.**

 **Zone-Meister: Settra? Submit? Ptra forbid. Settra will see all of Eostia and whatever else surrounds it burn to take his crown back. Settra does not serve.**

 **Aznereth: That was actually a Chaos Giant, which is also S6. Settra would have had some trouble if the giant managed to use its entire strength, but the King of Kings is too smart to let that happen. As for Settra's stand against Nagash, I think Celestine will be able to see that later. You know, if she doesn't get on Settra's bad side when they inevitably meet. 'Goddess Reborn,' really. And I plan to expound on why Settra wants to build a new kingdom in one of those interlude chapters as soon as I find a good time in the story.**

 **Me: I can see why you're finding it hard to update, what with having two _Warhammer_ characters to try to both develop and remain consistent with their game versions. As for Nagash, I hold him and that git Mannfred personally responsible for ending _Warhammer Fantasy_. I don't have too many kind words for them. And I think I'm keeping the _Kuroinu_ sequel something that happened in the future, but there might be some characters I can use there. Also, does the sequel have a map? A map means more things to conquer. And I use a bit of _Mordhau_ for combat (sort of) and small references to some other games, but nothing too big. I'd probably be glad if people have to squint hard to find them.**

 **Ragriz: I had to do that battle what service I could. It had a great source material, after all.**

 **Guest: The Crown of Nehekhara is the King of All Hats and is above such petty peasant matters such as stains. And thank you. I hope you also have a good day.**

 **Snakeboy33: I'm also glad to see this updated. As a historical tidbit, Settra was 'merely' Strength 5 in 6th edition, but he had better spellcasting. And he was also only Strength 5 if he was walking. If you take him with the Chariot of the Gods, which of course you would, he would be a whopping Strength 8.**

 **Thomas the tank engine: Neither can I. I hope I get to update it more quickly.**

 **Eugene: Settra, an attack dog? Perish the thought. If anything, he would have attack dogs of his own soon. And I'm giving Settra his side quest because I wouldn't have a story otherwise. I can't find a reason for him not to just kill Vault and the Black Dogs outright.**

 **And that's it, I guess. Next time, Ken finally gets under attack, and I (might) get to finally unleash Settra in action as he deserves. There will be sand. At least, I hope there will be.**


	8. The Siege Begins

**Welcome to the chapter where people get interrupted and I try do some navel-gazing while trying to set up what happens next. The Battle of Ken is quite big and war-changing in many ways, so I thought it best to divide it into two parts. Maybe even three, depending on how long the next one is.**

 **By the way, if you read _The Night Unfurls_ , there might be a character here that has the same name as one there. I shamelessly borrowed the name because I thought it was in the original visual novel, but it apparently isn't. At least, as far as I can tell.**

* * *

Chapter V  
The Siege Begins

' _The night grows thin, the battle dawns,  
buck up, my lads, be brave!  
Let's drink our fill and kiss our girls  
ere we go to our graves!'_

– _old mercenary drinking song_

* * *

The gatekeeper's loud, booming voice echoed throughout the White Palace's wide audience hall as he announced the name of the newest arrival to the strategy meeting.

'General Vault of the Black Dogs, Supreme Commander of the Auxiliaries of the Alliance, answering the call of Her Holiness.'

Claudia turned to Celestine. As is customary, the Goddess Reborn pointed her golden sceptre towards the door for a moment before putting it down again.

'Her Holiness permits his entrance,' Claudia called out, again as per the custom.

The armoured Dawn Templar guards in the hall pushed the great double-doors of white ironwood open, and from the entrance hall stepped forth the black-clad form of General Vault, who strode along the soft red carpet before kneeling on one knee before the first step of Celestine's throne.

Claudia considered the man. Almost as tall as an orc and powerfully built, Vault's size alone gives him a dominating presence over most men, and he looked formidable even when kneeling. He went without a helm and arming cap as he does outside of battle, which exposed his dark brown hair, stubble, and rough features, tanned and scarred from a lifetime of war. Despite being wealthy enough to afford halfling-forged full plate of the same quality as that worn by Claudia and her Dawn Templars, the general chose to instead wear a mail hauberk and a coat of plates forged by men. Despite his continued refusal of knighthood titles of nobility, he still topped his armour with a surcoat that presented a coat of arms: the Black Dogs' ebon dagger and dog's head sigil on a red shield, prominently displayed at the front of his black surcoat.

Strapped to Vault's back was an especially-built greatsword of truly colossal proportions, its blade wider than his already-muscular arm and almost as tall as he is. Such was its weight that only a man of his strength could wield it efficiently. Vault also had a more reasonably-sized arming sword in its scabbard on his belt alongside a dagger. Claudia knew from fighting alongside the man that he also wore calf-length boots over his chausses just so he can hide a misericorde in one of them. He eschewed the use of shields, stating that his fighting style did not allow for it. Based on what the Shield-Princess of Geofu saw of him on the battlefield, she did not doubt it.

'General Vault,' Celestine said, a serene smile on her face. 'I thank you for heeding my request on such short notice.'

Vault looked up to Celestine and smiled his signature confident smile. 'I do as my duty demands, Your Holiness,' he said.

'If you are so dead-set on prosecuting your duties, general, then I believe you out to have arrived sooner,' one of the two men standing at Celestine's left said. 'The Goddess's time is precious.'

Claudia glared at the man: the preening and well-dressed Count Michael Pantielle, _de facto_ leader of the noble houses of the men of the fortress-city due to his wealth, seniority, and connections. While he was known as a learned man and an able manager of the city's treasury despite the war, to Claudia, Count Pantielle was also a withered, pompous old man who was overly concerned with court etiquette and pageantry, to the point where it rankled at her. She knew fully why Celestine raised him to royal treasurer and acknowledged his advice, but she did not knew why the Goddess seemed to genuinely like the old man.

Pantielle kept his triumphant smirk at Vault until he noticed Claudia looking at her, at which point he flinched and schooled his expression.

'While his lordship the Count has it right to remind you of the Goddess's time, I for one believe you first ought to be welcomed, general,' the man to the left of Pantielle said. This man, Claudia knew, was the Baron Marcus Salazar, Captain-General of the Ken Militia.

In contrast to Pantielle, whom she simply did not like, Claudia much approved of Salazar. He was a former Dawn Templar who only left the order after the deaths of his father and brother left him the sole heir of his noble house. He was also a dependable soldier, a cool-headed commander, and a man who embodied the nobility's role as the leaders of the people, not simply their managers as Pantielle was. It was through Salazar that Claudia worked to expand the militia to what it currently is due to her worries regarding over-reliance on mercenaries.

'Thank you, Baron,' Vault said, turning to the baron. He faced Celestine again and smiled. 'I apologise for any inconvenience my tardiness may have caused,' he said. 'I was quite held up enacting the Goddess's will upon our foes.'

'Yes, indeed,' Claudia said. 'We have received your message regarding the orc horde you defeated on your way here. In fact, I did not expect you to arrive until this evening due to that.'

Vault shrugged. 'Our duties to Goddess and Alliance go before all the other concerns,' he said, referencing something Pantielle said in a past gathering. Claudia could almost see Pantielle bristling with impotent anger and Salazar trying his hardest not to laugh. Still, she kept her expression neutral, especially since she saw Celestine's smile falter a bit.

'The debates can wait, gentlemen,' Celestine said, her tone gentle yet with some hint of admonishment. 'I am certain we will have plenty to debate on during our meeting,' she said. She then stood from her throne. 'Please follow me, general, my lords, Lady Claudia. We have much to talk about.'

Celestine then descended from her throne and nodded at Claudia, who followed alongside Vault at a respectful distance three steps behind the Goddess. Pantielle and Salazar followed behind the Shield Princess and the general, and a pair of Dawn Templar Guards marched behind them.

* * *

'My visions show a most dire threat to all of us, my lords,' Celestine said when the group had settled into their seats. 'An attack on Ken may be imminent.'

The group met in one of the richly-appointed rooms behind the audience hall, the one normally reserved for taking meals with multiple guests. This time, however, a scale model of the City of Ken and its environs had been placed on the large round table that dominated the room, with carved figures representing the fortress-city's military forces placed in where their corresponding units were in the city: the militia mostly on the walls or their barracks in the Outer Ring, the single figure representing the Dawn Templars in the White Palace.

'Indeed,' Claudia said. 'General Vault's encounter with the orcs in Asper proves as much.'

'How large was this horde you faced again, general?' Pantielle asked.

Vault shrugged. 'We didn't have time to count, but they outnumbered the force I brought here at least three to one,' he said. 'Three thousand at the very least.' He placed six figures representing the demons near Asper, where his force last faced them. He toppled two over to symbolise that they had been defeated and took away the rest to show that they retreated.

'Three thousand,' Salazar muttered under his breath. 'That many, and this far south…'

'I have serious doubts about that number,' Pantielle said with a huff. 'Three thousand demons? This far south? Pray tell, how do you think they have gotten this far while evading our Goddess's vision?'

Claudia pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose. _This early into the meeting an_ _d h_ _e is already like this_ , she thought.

'Dark elven magic,' Salazar said. 'If the dark elves can conceal a knife or two in battle, couldn't the Dark Queen, whom we acknowledge as the most powerful of their sorceresses, be able to conceal an army?'

'In truth, she wouldn't even need to do such a thing,' Vault added. 'Most of the forts to the far north of Ken are either undermanned or abandoned.'

'That is because they face nothing but the Broken Lands,' Pantielle insisted. 'Or are you about to tell me that the Dark Queen's armies managed to cross that?'

'It can happen,' Salazar said. 'This is the Dark Queen we are discussing.'

'What flagrant admiration of the great enemy,' Pantielle said, scoffing. 'If you have so high an opinion of the Dark Queen, Baron Salazar, then perhaps it may be time to consider pledging your allegiance to her?'

'Count Pantielle!' Celestine exclaimed before Claudia or even Salazar can react. She saw that Celestine stood up and fixed a cold gaze upon the old man. 'You go too far with your japes.'

Pantielle, wide-eyed and sweaty, looked at the four other attendees of the meeting like a bird looking around for predators. 'I- I- Forgive me, Your Holiness,' he muttered, bowing his head. 'I simply-'

'If you are to ask at forgiveness, direct it at the Baron,' Celestine said.

'Y-yes, Your Holiness. I am sorry, Baron. My statement was uncalled-for.'

Salazar nodded but said nothing. Claudia kept her gaze at Pantielle, whose eyes were still flitting to and fro. _Serves him right_ , she thought. She looked at Vault, who simply looked bored, before speaking.

'Our scouts corroborate the fact that the Black Dogs did indeed fight a battle south of Ken,' Claudia said. 'It is a proven fact that yes, demons did reach this far south in force. I am no scholar or mystic, but I do know that Lady Celestine's oracular vision, though potent and far-reaching, does have its limitations. These limitations are especially true when directed towards a being as powerful as the Dark Queen.' Celestine nodded appreciatively at Claudia, who briefly smiled back before turning towards Pantielle. 'And we do acknowledge that the Dark Queen _is_ powerful. That is the reason why this war has lasted this long, is it not?'

'U-uh, yes, of course,' Pantielle answered, wiping sweat off his brow. He then took a deep breath to regain his composure. 'But my question stands,' he continued. 'How did the demons-'

'Investigation _how_ the Dark Queen did it can wait,' Claudia interrupted. 'What matters now is asking _what_ we can do.'

'True,' Salazar said, nodding. 'Do we have any information as to how many demons still remain out there?'

'No,' Claudia admitted, 'no, we do not. Due to either dark elven trickery or, as General Vault implies, crossing the Broken Lands, the demons have completely eluded us.'

'The last point Claudia brings up is especially important,' Celestine said. 'The demons have _completely_ eluded us. I believe that if they are present, the Dark Queen might be leading them herself.'

'She can block herself from your sight, Your Holiness?' Pantielle asked, sounding quite incredulous.

Celestine shook her head. 'The oracular vision is just like any kind of vision, Michael,' she gently explained, which shows her earlier wrath had subsided. 'While no existing spell known to us can do so, things can be hidden from it, even if just for a limited time. However, with enough raw power and might in the magical arts, such a spell might be developed.'

'And raw power is something the Dark Queen has aplenty,' Vault said, nodding. 'It seems we're limited to the eyes we're born with for this one.'

'I'm sorry,' Celestine said, her head lowered in shame.

'Think nothing of it, Your Holiness,' Vault said with a smile. 'Just keep looking towards Ur. We'll handle this for you.'

'Thank you, General,' Celestine replied with a smile of her own.

'Where the oracular vision fails, simple calculation may provide the answer,' he Salazar said. 'Let us assume that the number of demons General Vault faced at Asper is indeed at three thousand. Let us also assume that such a force is indeed the vanguard a larger one, which demon hordes always send out to scout out the area and test our defences. Now, think upon earlier battles against demonic hordes we have faced. The one we faced three years ago at the gates of Feoh. How large was it?'

'Twenty-six thousand strong,' Claudia said, not quite knowing where Salazar was going.

'Twenty-six thousand indeed,' Salazar confirmed. 'The first force the Iris Knights met numbered twenty-six hundred. How, what of the horde that attacked Thorn before that?'

'Twenty-two thousand,' Vault replied. 'I know the first force we met numbered twenty-two hundred; my boys and I were the ones who killed them.'

'Indeed, General' Salazar said. 'Now, logic dictates that given the three thousand you faced in battle, we can expect a horde of around thirty thousand demons.'

'I did not know the demons were so consistent,' Pantielle commented.

'They're not,' Salazar admitted. 'The figure of thirty thousand is, at best, the minimum number of demons we expect.'

'Indeed,' Claudia said. 'And even that minimum number is greater than the force we have at the moment.'

'True,' Salazar replied. 'The Ken Militia numbers twelve thousand strong, but only two thousand of them have any experience in combat. Up to six thousand are totally green, fresh out of training. I can assure you, however, of the quality of their drills and the courage in their hearts. These are their homes and families they are protecting, after all.'

'The noble houses of Ken commit their household troops to the battle,' Pantielle said, placing carved figures representing the troops of the nobility in the model city's Inner Ring. 'Our troops number four thousand all in all, but they are certainly more well-armed and trained than _most_.' Claudia could have sword Pantielle was smirking at Salazar when saying those words.

Vault placed three figures representing the Black Dogs at the model of their headquarters in the Outer Ring. 'I brought a thousand men with me,' he said. 'To add to the five hundred neophytes training in our barracks. We can make use of them if need be.' He placed six figures in the south-western corner of the table. 'I've also already taken the liberty of calling for more from the forces originally headed for Ur. I can call for more if the need arises.'

'And I have five hundred Dawn Templar knights at my command, along with a thousand novitiates,' Claudia said. Pantielle, Salazar, and Celestine all smiled at her words while Vault nodded in acknowledgement. Despite their extremely limited numbers, the Dawn Templars are acknowledged to be the greatest fighters on Eostia on an individual basis, and the presence of even a single company of 50 in the battlefield has been known to turn the tide of war against superior numbers time and time again.

'Such forces are more than enough to defend our city, I believe,' Pantielle said. 'After all, despite being outnumbered nearly two to one…'

'At the very least,' Salazar interrupted.

' _At the very least_ ,' Pantielle repeated with a glare. He cleared his throat before continuing. 'We are protected by the walls of Ken, the greatest of their kind in the land, and they have been touched by the Goddess herself. No demon can ever cross her magical wards.'

'The Dark Queen should know that,' Salazar remarked. 'She has learned of it plenty of times in the past.'

'Perhaps Ken is indeed not her intended target,' Pantielle replied. 'Or perhaps this "attack" is not worth worrying about at all.'

'Or maybe she knows something we don't,' Vault said. Celestine and Claudia grimly nodded at the statement.

'Like what?' Pantielle asked.

No one in the meeting got to answer. They were suddenly interrupted by knocking, loud and hurried, which disrupted caught all of their attention. The knocking was followed by a period of silence, which, in turn, was followed by more serene knocking.

'Open it,' Claudia ordered. The two Dawn Templars manning the doors complied, and another Dawn Templar knight poked his un-helmeted head inside.

'I beg your pardon, Your Holiness, my lady,' he said. 'But Novitiate Narras says she has something very urgent to report.'

'Send her in,' Claudia said.

She then turned to Celestine. 'Amelia is a fine novitiate,' she explained. 'If she is willing to disrupt our meeting for this report, then it must be very important indeed.'

The aforementioned novitiate burst into the room, tired and out of breath, her blond hair and the blue and white uniform of her rank dishevelled by what was undoubtedly a long run from the outer court. She knelt before the table and kept her face to the ground, panting all the while.

'Report… from the northern outposts, Your Holiness,' she said in between pants. 'Demons… Tens of thousands of them. Approaching from the west. _They're here_.'

* * *

'Admit it,' Marcus said with a sigh. 'We're lost.'

Gav looked at Marcus with an incredulous stare. 'Lost?' he asked, as if not entirely believing Marcus's words. 'We're not lost. We've never been lost. We're…' He looked around. ' _Exploring_.'

Matcus also looked around at the place they were walking on: an empty street between a row of large, well-appointed white buildings – houses of the wealthier sort, he'd wager – and a square with a large fountain whose centrepiece is a sculpture of an elven maiden pouring water from a basin. He took note of the fact that this is the first time he was seeing the square or the fountain, which meant they were in completely unfamiliar ground at this point.

'The very fact that we're _exploring_ means we don't know where we are in the first place,' He said drily.

'Details,' Gav replied with a dismissive wave of a hand. 'Come on, Marcus. Where's your sense of adventure? We're finally in Ken, my friend. _Ken_. Heart of the Alliance, seat of the Goddess, however else you may call it. It's _Ken_. It's a learning opportunity. Aren't you bookish types supposed to appreciate these kinds of outings?'

Marcus sighed for what he counted as the fourth time since this fateful outing.

'I'd appreciate it more if we weren't only given leave until sundown and there's no threat of demons looming right before us.'

'Fine, be like that,' Gav said in a deflated tone.

The two new Black Dogs had been wandering the empty streets of Ken for about two hours. After they had formally signed their contracts – that is, after Marcus signed his contract and Gav barely managed to write his name – the eight survivors of Asper were given leave for the rest of the afternoon instead of getting them to join the other neophytes. After all, the garrison commander told them, they had their fill of drills in Asper the previous day. Captain Hicks agreed and allowed them to see the city, closed-up and terrified as it was.

All eight of them initially left for the city together. After an hour of fruitless searching, they all decided to return to the barracks. However, it soon became apparent that none of them knew what they were doing. Thus, most of them decided to split up in the hope that at least some of them will be able to make it back by sunset.

 _What a mistake that turned out to be_ , Marcus thought as he silently laughed in self-deprecation. He looked at Gav, who was again trying to find his bearings. _That and trusting Gav with the directions_.

Gav suddenly stopped in front of a building.

'Hey look,' he said, pointing at a large building to their right. 'This tavern seems open.' Marcus looked at the building's white edifice. Its windows and doors were not shut and boarded, and he did not see any sign signifying it was closed. However, he did not hear the usual noises of activity inside, which he half-expected with the citizens being fearful as they are. Still, he saw that a sign with a pitcher icon – the universal sign of a tavern and inn – did indeed hang from above the building's door.

'I doubt it, but let's try anyway,' Marcus said. He took the initiative and stepped up towards the door. He knocked at it several times before trying to crack it open.

The tavern did not turn out to be locked. Marcus stepped in, followed closely by Gav. Both men noted how eerie it was for such a spacious tavern to look as neat and empty as it did, especially during that time of the afternoon.

'I'm sorry,' a feminine voice said from the bar at the far end of the tavern as the two Black Dogs looked around. 'We're about to close up for the day.'

The speaker then stood up from whatever it was she was doing to reveal herself to the two men.

Marcus froze up in wide-eyed shock as she saw the woman.

She was beautiful, that was to be certain, with a pleasant, well-formed face, exotic purple eyes, silky black hair, a lithe body, and quite possibly the largest breasts Marcus had seen in a woman. Her skin was also a very pleasing shade of brown, and her elegant purple dress and lavender shawl did very little to conceal the outline of her form. As for her ears…

 _Dark elf_ , Marcus thought. Time seemed to slow for him as he remembered the Battle of Asper, the dark elf disguised as an orc chieftain, and that envenomed blade that came very close to taking his life in the battle. His heartbeat started to pick up, and he felt a bead of sweat flow from his forehead. It took all of his willpower to stop his hand from grabbing his sword.

Gav clapped him on the shoulder and got his attention before he could do anything stupid. Marcus inwardly sighed with relief, both for the presence of his friend and the fact that said-friend likely saw the elf as just another beautiful, large-breasted maiden.

'Ah, don't worry, miss,' Gav said with a grin. 'We're only here to ask for directions.'

The dark elf smiled and motioned for the men to approach. Marcus walked behind Gav, just out of the elf's sight. He felt disgusted at his earlier reaction. _Of course there would be a dark elf here_ , he thought. _A number of them stood against the Dark Queen and fled south when the demons came_. He bit his lower lip as he forced himself to calm down. He also noted with relief that the elf did not seem to notice, or was at least kind enough to pretend not to.

'New to the city, are you?' the elf asked. 'Too bad you came at such a terrible time.'

'You shouldn't worry about that too,' Gav said once he sat down one of the bar's chairs, his face bearing that cocky smile he had whenever he failed to flirt with women. 'We came here to protect this city.' Marcus sighed as he sat beside his friend, silently wagering with himself on when he will be shot down.

The dark elf giggled. 'Mercenaries, I see,' she said. 'And pretty young too.'

'We're young, yes, but we're also battle-proven,' Gav replied. He put an arm around Marcus's shoulder and pulled him in. Marcus could do nothing but palm his face in annoyance. 'Why, just the other day, my friend here managed to defeat an orc warband by slaying its-'

' _Not really the time to talk about that_ ,' Marcus hissed as he pried Gav's arm off of him. Gav stared at him with his brow furrowed in confusion, but Marcus simply pointed at the dark elf with his eyes. Gav then nodded and kept quiet, realising who it was he was about tell of Marcus's exploit of killing a dark elf.

'I'm very sorry about him, miss,' Marcus said, a sheepish grin on his face.

The dark elf simply giggled again in reply.

'Oh, don't worry about it,' she said with a smile. 'I like boys like your friend. They make me remember what it's like to be young again.'

'You're plenty young, miss,' Gav said, regaining his footing. 'In fact, I'd-'

'I'd stop talking now before you embarrass yourself any more, young man,' an old, gravelly voice – a male one – said from the direction of the staircase beside the bar. Marcus then heard footsteps on wooden steps as the new speaker descended to the tavern.

It was an older gentleman, tanned and wrinkled, with a white moustache and beard that were close to the unkempt side. Despite his obviously advanced age, he walked with a confident stride that spoke of an active lifestyle. Marcus noted that the old man, who stood next to the dark elf at the bar and put a hand around her waist, wore a well-worn gambeson and arming-cap, sure signs of a martial life. He also had old sword hanging from a baldric on his left waist, as well as a shield strapped to his back.

'There you go ruining my fun again, Hark,' the dark elf said with an exaggerated pout. 'You know how much I love it when men compliment my looks.'

'I compliment you often enough, Grace,' the old man, Hark, apparently, replied with a smile. 'You're perfect as always. I thought you were closing up shop?'

'I was,' Grace said, 'before these two young fellows came here.'

Marcus decided to speak up first while Gav was trying to figure out what was going on.

'We're just here to ask for directions, sir,' he explained. 'Or at least, we _were_ before my friend here…'

'Your daughter's an elf?' Gav interrupted. Marcus, who quickly figured out what was going on, again palmed his face and started shaking, this time due to the failed effort of holding back laughter. Old Hark had a wide, smug grin that showed that was not the first case this happened.

'No, but his wife is,' Grace answered. Marcus finally burst out laughing as Gav gawped at the dark elf and her husband.

'And I count myself _very_ lucky indeed,' Grace continued, a fond smile at her husband. 'Not many women can say their men are half as dashing this one.' She planted a quick peck at Hark's cheek.

'You…' Gav managed to struggle out as Marcus's laughter died down. 'You're a very lucky man.'

Hark grinned. 'That I am, boy, that I-'

The conversation was interrupted by the ringing of a bell in the distance. Hark's expression suddenly turned into a grave frown. Grace's brow furrowed with worry, and she looked to her husband. She did not even seem to notice Hark protectively put an arm around her shoulder and pull her close. The bell was later joined by others, both closer and further away, and their ringing became quicker and more insistent. The ringing eventually became so intense that seemed as if the whole world outside the tavern was ringing in alarm.

' _Damn_ ,' Hark hissed as the two village boys looked around, confused. 'There's only one reason why all the city's bells would ring like that,' the old man continued.

'Enemies,' Marcus said, a sinking feeling in his gut.

'Damn right,' Hark answered as his eyes scanned the bar for something. Grace handed him what he was looking for: an old kettle helm. The dark elf then helped the old man strap it on.

'I have to get going,' Hark told his wife firmly after he kissed her one last time. Grace nodded but said nothing. Hark turned to the two as he started for the door. 'And if you're mercenaries, so do you.'

'Right,' Marcus said, following him. He saw that Gav was still sitting, for some reason.

'Ah, we still don't know how we'd reach that place we should get to,' he told Grace. Marcus stopped following Hark and shook his head as he realised the thought escaped him.

'Where _are_ you supposed to be going?' Grace asked.

'The Black Dogs' barracks,' Gav replied.

Hark, who had just opened the door and was about to step outside, stopped and turned to Marcus.

'I'm headed to the barracks of the Ken Militia,' he said. 'It's pretty close to the Mercenary Quarter. Come with me.'

* * *

As the bells began their insistent ringing within the city walls, savage roars from inhuman throats echoed across the plains outside: the roars of demon chieftains urging their brethren forward, and the battle-cries of the great horde they commanded.

In any other fortress manned by any other soldiers, such noises would cause massive waves of panic, and the hearts of the bravest men would be made to fail. However, the demons assaulted Ken, mightiest city of the Alliance, and it was defended by the one of the most well-trained militia force in the Alliance, which trained in the shadow of Lady Claudia and the Dawn Templars.

'Ken is more than our home,' the militiaman Anton of the Western Outer Wall Company remembered Captain Zane saying during their company's first muster. 'She is the crowning jewel of the Alliance. And even more than that, she is the seat of the Goddess and a mother to us all. The Goddess's touch has blessed our city's very stones: no demon can touch them, and no unclean magic can do them harm. Within these walls, we are more than secure; within these walls, we are _invincible_.'

'Look!' a call came from somewhere close by, to his left. Anton looked at the source of the voice and found Sal, another militiaman, jabbing his forefinger at some point beyond the battlements.

'Quiet down!' Sergeant Shem barked. 'Stand at attention!'

Anton and all of the other militiamen of their wall section complied, but they also gazed at what Sal pointed at.

What they saw were dark shapes emerging from the north-western horizon, black against the darkening plain. There seemed to be only a few of them at first, but their true numbers became evident as they advanced. Soon, it seemed as if an amorphous, roaring black flood was headed towards them, picking up speed as it went.

The rest of Captain Zane's words during their muster echoed in Anton's mind.

'Let the hordes of Garan come,' the captain said. 'Let the Dark Queen herself show her face outside our walls. _Ken will stand_.'

Anton's heart started to beat wildly in his chest, but he knew it was not out of fear. Within the walls of Ken, they were invincible. _Let them come_ , he thought, squinting his eyes to try and get a better look at the demons. _Let them all come._

'Prepare!' Sergeant Shem ordered. Anton and his fellow crossbowmen raised their weapons with one hand and opened his bolt pouch with the other as the spearmen remained at attention. Anton did not take his eyes off the demons all the while.

'Draw!' came the next order.

Anton and the rest of the crossbowmen took their goatsfoot levers with their free hands, braced them against their crossbows, pulled back to draw, and placed the levers back to their separate pouches. He heard a roar that seemed to resemble words. The demons roared even louder, and they seemed to be charging by then.

'Load!'

Anton took a bolt and placed it upon his drawn crossbow. A stone was hurled towards the demons from another section of the wall. The wall-mounted trebuchets were beginning to fire their ranging shots.

'Aim!'

Anton braced his crossbow's stock against his shoulder, placed his hand near the trigger, and stepped forward, placing himself in a gap in the wall's battlements.

'Steady, men,' Sergeant Shem called out. The crossbowmen kept still, eyes scanning the great demon horde rampaging across the plain beyond, searching for a target. More stones were hurled by the trebuchets, some of them landing in the middle of the charging mass.

Still, the horde drew ever closer. Anton picked an individual target in the charging mass.

Anton did not notice it, but his expression grew to a feral snarl. His breathing became short and tense, and his heart beat like war drums in anticipation.

The horde drew even closer. The appearance of Anton's target was slowly becoming more distinct from its demon brethren, though it was still too distant to clearly make out. He stilled his breathing to calm himself.

A few tense moments passed. Anton felt as if his whole being was reduced to his target, his crossbow, and his trigger finger. All that was left was the order.

'Now, loose!'

As Sergeant Shem gave the order, though, a great bolt of white-hot fire erupted from somewhere in the demonic horde and streaked straight towards their wall-section like a comet. Above the din of battle, above the savage noises of the demons, the fire bolt gave a loud roar as it ignited the air around it.

Their focus broken, many of the crossbowmen ducked for cover as the great fire bolt flew towards them. Anton remained standing, though; fear had frozen his legs in place. He helplessly watched as blindingly bright death came towards him at great speed. All he could do was close his eyes.

There was a great, ear-splitting explosion, and Anton felt great heat wash over him. However, it passed after a few moments, and for a brief time, there was nothing but utter stillness. Anton opened his eyes and looked around. He was alive. The fire bolt had exploded a few feet away from the wall, stopped dead by the Goddess's wards.

 _The captain was right_ , Anton thought with much elation. _We_ are _invincible on these walls_!

'What are you bastards waiting for?' He then heard the sergeant bark. 'Loose! Loose! Loose!'

Anton then hastily re-acquired his target in his sights and loosed his bolt, adding to the storm of steel-tipped death that issued forth from the walls. He missed, but he hit yet another orc at the base of the neck, just above the left collarbone. As numerous as the bastards were, it was impossible to actually miss.

'Recover! Second rank forward!' Sergeant Shem ordered. Anton and his fellow crossbowmen obeyed with well-drilled precision, their spirits lifted by that show of the Goddess's favour.

 _Let them come_ , Anton thought again as he drew and loaded his crossbow a second time. _Let them all come_.

* * *

Histories about the Hundred-Year War, even the most scholarly ones, would often put Olga at the head of the more than 70,000-strong demon horde that assaulted Ken. This assertion is false.

The truth, while less dramatic, was quite the opposite.

When the demon chieftains under Olga's command roared out orders to charge, the Dark Queen sat at the very rear of the army, surrounded by a coven of dark elven sorceresses and protected by her Ebon Guard and the ever-redoubtable Chloe.

The demonic army's orc vanguard charged at the walls, only to die _en masse_ to the siege-engines and crossbow bolts of the defenders of Ken. A few managed to actually touch the walls or place ladders upon them in some places, but they were all set alight by Celestine's protective wards. The goblins launched volley after volley of arrows, though their shorter bows and feeble arms meant they often lacked the strength to reach the walls' defenders.

Some of the lower-ranked dark elf sorceresses were tasked with acting as the Dark Queen's siege-engines, launching bolts of magical fire to attempt to break the wards through sheer brute force. Past battles in other fortress-cities have proven that such a thing was possible, if only temporarily.

Still, the junior sorceresses were never meant to succeed. None of these first attacks were. Instead, they were meant to distract the defenders from the Dark Queen's true intent.

Olga stood at the centre of a circle of eight sorceresses, who were helping her enact a great Ritual of Unmaking. She and the sorceresses chanted in the dead language of the once-unified elven empire, and the ground glowed beneath them glowed with mystical sigils as they spoke. The very air seemed to vibrate and warp, such was the power of the their words, and the jewel that topped the Dark Queen's staff glowed and crackled with fierce red lightning. Olga could feel her diminishing yet still-potent powers drain even further as they enacted the spell, but she knew she had no other choice. They had to continue the spell.

Meanwhile, in a number of places in a three-mile circumference around Ken, a series of red orbs glowed in response to the dark elves' ritual. They are the conduits of Olga's power, and once the rite it complete, they would all unleash magical energies specifically tuned to weaken Celestine's wards and leave them vulnerable to destruction, should they be struck by powerful-enough spells. The orbs would work with greater efficiency the closer they were to the city, but all of Olga's agents who joined the orc vanguard to plant the orbs only got so far, especially since she told them to avoid detection at all costs.

Little did anyone – including the Dark Queen herself – know that one of her orbs was inside the fortress-city itself, in the library of the Black Dogs' headquarters.

* * *

There was a change in the air. Settra knew it. Whether through instinct honed by millennia or other means more preternatural in nature, he simply _knew_.

Battle had been joined, and it was very close.

His form cursed as it is with an eternity of living death, the raptures of life no longer delighted the King of Kings. The coolness of wine, the taste of food, the softness of women, such things meant nothing to Settra, as it meant nothing to any Tomb King. Battle was the only pleasure left to the king, the only thing that made him feel the rush of life.

And as he continued his single-minded march north to his mission for the Crown of Nehekhara, battle beckoned to him.

 _A great_ _battle_ _, not twelve leagues_ _from where he stood_ _,_ _where the chariot of Ptra met the horizon_.

Settra ceased his march and stood still. He turned west, where battle began to rage. The grassy plains he marched across were relatively flat, and he had a clear view of the ground ahead. His vision much sharpened after it was freed from the constraints of fleshy eyes, he saw in the distance the epicentre of the battle: a fortified city on a hill, one of high walls and great turrets, of stone towers that pointed up to the firmament like the fingers of a fallen sky-titan reaching out to the gods.

 _A great city, one ripe for conquest._

Settra had lost his kingdom to the Usurper, and his entire world had likely been torn asunder by the jackal-gods of the Chaos Wastes. Treacherous thoughts crossed his mind then, to abandon the Crown of Nehekhara to languish in the hands of barbarians, to stride with all due pride upon the city and subjugate it. _To feel the heat of battle and gain the glory of victory. To gain a new kingdom. To rule once more._

Ultimately, however, Settra again turned north. Towards the empty wastes, towards the Crown of Nehekhara. Whatever thoughts he had of joining battle and beginning his conquest before regaining the Crown were abandoned, thrown to the wind. Perhaps it was mere vanity that drove him on, that no king should ever rule while his crown is in the hands of his enemies. Perhaps it was arrogance, which the Great King ever used to drive him to ever prove his greatness. Perhaps it was a desire to honour Lost Nehekhara, not to allow one of its last artefacts to lie abandoned.

Or perhaps it was simply to prove a point to himself.

 _Settra rules all, even his own desires._

Whatever his thoughts, the King of King strode forward, untiring, to the north. As he marched, he chanted in High Nehekharan, the ancient tongue of the liche-priests. He spoke an ancient, unremembered litany, one that invoked the many names of Khsar the Faceless, God of the Desert Wind. And as he spoke, his ancient words summoned hot winds of the Infinite Desert. And with the winds came the ancient sands of Nehekhara.

Settra ceased his march as the storm reached fever pitch. The desert wind attended him as faithful courtiers before their rightful liege-lord, and the sands surrounded him like a stalwart bodyguard. With an unspoken command, the sandstorm lifted his form and bore him aloft.

And so continued Settra, Ruler of the Four Horizons, carried by the desert wind along his royal path. The storm carried him north, ever closer to the Crown, and none shall bar his way.

Indeed, not even the stone fort that stood several leagues into his way, where desperate men made their last stand against yet another horde of vile creatures, kin to the swine-beasts that stole his crown. It would serve as yet another stepping-stone in his path to conquest.

* * *

 **That's that for this chapter. As I said, not much action. Just a guy shooting a crossbow bolt and Settra waiting for the cooldown to Khsar's Invocation of the Desert Wind to end.**

 **Perseus12: Convince Olga to end the war? Why would Settra do that? War is one of his hobbies, alongside chariot-riding and hunting big, giant beasties.**

 **Dragonheart51: There will be things over Settra's knee, yes. Figuratively and oh-so-very literally.**

 **Aznereth: Why yes, Settra _is_ the Everchosen of the Nehekharan pantheon. After all of these Ken shenanigans, I'm planning to somewhat explore that concept during Settra's long, otherwise empty walk through the desert. It's a big, magic desert, after all. I think he'd find it familiar. As for Chaos being involved, maybe. Or maybe not. Who knows how those jackals operate?**

 **Me: I may have some use for that map once I see it. I think I saw it somewhere, I just can't remember where. As for watching _Kuroinu_ , I'm actually more restrained by a lack of time than actual reluctance. All those Lizardmen trinkets won't just ship themselves back to the Empire, after all. And Settra referring to the Eostian orcs as swine-men is probably more him being his usual arrogant self than any of my attempts at being accurate. He'd face ogres next, so I'll have to think of something suitably insulting he may think of. And the visual novel is available at Mangagamer, but it's divided into three parts at around $25 each. Not a very accommodating price for what's essentially drawn-out depictions of monster rape with anime-style drawings.**

 **Bruce USSR: None of the other big _Warhammer_ names for now, no. But will Chaos show up and wrap its tentacles around Settra's new conquests? As I said earlier, the answer is a definite _I don't know_.**

 **Eugene: Settra being essentially a side character for this arc is actually due to me not being able to find a sensible way of integrating him into the story without him crushing everything one-handed. Think of one usual scene from any _Kuroinu_ crossover story inspired by that Wimblegurk challenge: in the Black Fortress, with the OC hero facing Vault and the Black Dogs after he rescued Olga and Chloe from prison. The plot demands the hero, Olga and Chloe to survive that encounter. Vault also needs to survive or the story will have no big, bad villain. To see my problem, replace the OC hero with Settra. Why would Settra want to rescue Olga without seeming out-of-character? Why wouldn't Settra just kill Vault then and there? Why shouldn't he take control of the Black Fortress himself and go on his own merry conquest of Eostia? My solution to that mess is to avoid it altogether and put Settra on a hunt for his hat. It's a great hat, not to mention being the symbol of his complete rule over Nehekhara and his undying will. After the hat is found, the focus turns to Settra.**

 **Janne Rolfe Jalandoni: Khemri has only one king!**

 **Mr. What If: I did get dangerously close to that trap last chapter. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten him to free the women so he can at least still seem uncaring. But yes, making Settra heroic while definitely not making him a good guy will be a delicate balancing act. I can already see one way of correcting this, yes. But that won't be until later.**

 **ManwithaPlan113: LORD OF THE EARTH. MONARCH OF THE SKY. RULER OF THE FOUR HORIZONS. MIGHTY LION OF THE INFINITE DESERT. GREAT HAWK OF THE HEAVENS. MAJESTIC EMPEROR OF THE SHIFTING SANDS- I'll stop now or we'll be here a while.**

 **snakeboy33: Now I have the mental picture. I don't think Settra would like that, though. The slaves' place is on the ground, prostrated before him. Whenever they're not about their trades or building grand monuments to his glory, that is.**

 **NightBringer325: I currently want him to make a beeline away from Ken, where he can't kill anyone important to the plot. That part comes later.**

 **Lord Asmodeus: There will be fire, oh yes. That fire might even have screaming skulls launched from trebuchets.**

 **Savior16: Literally or figuratively?**

 **Z.L.C. genesmith: Ah, yet another Nehekharan of culture. Portraying that part of Settra's character while not making him seem one-note will be a challenge, I'm sure of it.**

 **kirito emiya: Nice.**

 **EVA-Saiyajin: Yes, Settra will have magic. We've already seen Ptra's Incantation of Righteous Smiting in that Asper battle (though Marcus didn't know it), and we've now seen Khsar's Invocation of the Desert Wind. I'm thinking that Wrath of Ptra ability from _Total War_ next, or maybe even Usirian's Incantation of Vengeance. But will Usirian's incantation work without an Usirian? I'm not sure.**

 **By the way, I finally solved that costuming problem I had since about the first chapter or so of the story: good, old-fashioned boobplate. Gotta love it. Also, Vault wears a mail hauberk, coat of plates and surcoat here. The Black Dogs mostly wear gambesons instead of those leather vests because this is the classier of my _Kuroinu_ crossovers, at least fashion-wise. Settra can't clearly show his outrageous armour-piercing S6 if everyone is still wearing their original clothes, you see.**

 **That's all I have for today. Up next, the actual battle. Schedule-wise, my other story is still very much actively interrupting my brainstorming, so a chapter there next. And if you've read this far, I should inform you that I might need a beta reader for this story so I can avoid embarrassing typographical errors I may have missed, make the plot flow better, and improve the story's pacing. Expect a confirmation of whether I think I really will need one by next chapter.**


End file.
